


Falling Slowly

by Sanda



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drama, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, F/M, Mild Smut, Romance, Series Spoilers, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-16 14:49:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 53
Words: 105,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2273814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanda/pseuds/Sanda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exploration of what could have happened if the Hound had never left Sansa after the Battle of Blackwater, blending elements from the book and show universe. Ages are kept ambiguous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> None of the history that is already established in the series at any point before the Battle of Blackwater has been rewritten. Some liberties have been taken with any series events happening after the Battle of Blackwater, and the rest is entirely made up.  
> The story opens at the same point as the chapter in book 3 (for those of you unfamiliar with the books) where Sansa is trying on a gown given to her by the queen, not knowing that it is actually a wedding dress and she is about to be married to Tyrion Lannister because Cersei thinks she’s a clever bitch and decides to make the wedding a surprise.
> 
> The first chapters may feel slightly rushed, due to me feeling uncomfortable about rewriting what has already been written masterfully by George RR Martin (the description of Sansa’s gown, for example).  
> Perspectives of both Sansa and Sandor are shown. Sometimes perspective will shift multiple times in a chapter, but in order to avoid confusion it will never happen within the same paragraph.
> 
> MATURE CONTENT WARNING  
> This story does contain some explicit scenes, but it is a story, not a porn or piece of erotic literature. None of the descriptions will be more graphic than anything GRRM has put in his books, so if you watch the show or read the series, you should be able to handle it.
> 
> As mentioned above, I've kept ages ambiguous to avoid making anyone feel uncomfortable, while still trying to stay true to the characters. There's an age difference between the characters, which is sometimes addressed, but without specifics.

          The queen’s handmaidens had brushed and bathed Sansa all morning until her skin was pink and her hair shone like a flame. They had brought a light breakfast of fruits, curds, and honey to her bedchambers, and though the fruit tasted sweet as ever, Sansa felt she could scarcely stand to eat. When she donned the new gown for the first time and looked in the mirror, it even took her own breath away. She looked a woman, and she hadn’t felt so lovely in ages. _Willas will love me, I know it_. _And Robb, I will get to see Robb again, and Mother, and…_ She couldn’t help but giggle and spin around in the dress like she did as a girl, when she and her friends pretended to be princesses.

          The queen entered with an unimpressed, lazy smile as her eyes swept over Sansa. “Yes. I suppose that will do quite nicely. A pity, though, to have you wasted….” She looked as though she might go on, but thought better of it. Her lips twitched. “Well, no matter.” Cersei gestured to the seamstress and handmaidens, “You all, with me.” She turned to Sansa, “You are to stay here until Joff comes for you. Don’t think about going anywhere, the Hound will be at your door the whole time.”

_The Hound isn’t here_. Almost as immediately as the thought came, Sansa felt stupid- _of course_ he wouldn’t have been in the room with her, not while she was being dressed, but the queen never went anywhere without guards. She was so used to seeing his imposing figure fill a room that she often forgot how stealthy he could be. It was easy to mistakenly assume that if he was around, she would surely be able to see him. _Just because something can’t be seen, doesn’t mean it is not there_ she reminded herself, hearing her old septa's voice.

          Sansa nodded obediently and with one last, mildly satisfied look the queen turned on her heel and out of the door, trailed by the flowing skirts of her dress and the crowd of handmaidens. The door remained open, and that was when Sansa saw the familiar dark armor of The Hound, his bad side closest to the open archway. She had gotten used to the twisted side of his face by now, but in truth it was no less ugly. Still, even he could not dampen her spirits, not now. She turned to look in the mirror again and giggled.

          “What are you laughing at, girl?” The Hound rasped.

_Wouldn’t you like to know_? “Nothing, my lord.” Sansa replied, unable to hide the excitement in her voice.

           The Hound turned to face the inside of her room, face sullen as ever and grey eyes piercing her in a way that suddenly made her lose her smile and filled her with a sense of dread. “You’re a piss-poor liar, girl, and you know damn well I’m no lord.” he sneered, “Haven’t you learned better by now not to grin and giggle at every little thing? Haven’t you learned yet that their gifts are all poisoned?”

          Sansa was terribly confused- it seemed as though today everyone knew something she did not. _No, that’s just how the Hound is, he’s always been like this…and Cersei, too._ She thought of Margaery and the Queen of Thorns, and forced herself to look the Hound in the eye, “Just because you are not happy doesn’t mean everyone else has to be.” She was proud of herself, even if she was only being bold to the Hound. She raised her chin up like she remembered her mother would, strong and wise.

          The Hound only growled, “Don’t you see, girl? Or are you really still so stupid? Or just buggering proud in your pretty new gown, puffing up your feathers like the empty-headed bird you are that you can’t see what’s right in front of you? Why do you think the queen gave you that dress, _pretty bird_?”

          Sansa’s lip trembled, no matter how much of a woman she was, the Hound could always make her feel like such a child. “I…I am to wear it at King Joffrey’s wedding,” she said, almost believing it.

          The Hound barked a laugh and shook his head. “No, Little bird, you’re to wear it to your wedding,” he said, in a tone thick with mockery.

          Sansa’s heart suddenly felt as though it might beat out of her chest, ripping to shreds the tight gown that covered it. _My wedding. To whom? Surely…but they couldn’t know about Willas…_ Her eyes searched the Hound’s, but his eyes were as angry and impenetrable as ever.

          He saw her searching. “The Queen means to have you wed her brother,” he sneered, watching with satisfaction as the fear and realization settled over her, “Do you see now, little bird? Your precious king is coming to hand you off to the Imp. A little man for the little bird.” A cruel jape.

His words hit her hard. _He’s right, you are so stupid…how could you not have known?_ “No… _No_! I won’t do it.” Her dress felt too tight, as if it were a snake coiling itself around her, threatening to turn her blue. _You mustn’t cry. You mustn’t._ _You are a wolf, not a dog, you do not have to obey their every command. They can’t make you._

          The Hound tilted his head to the side, almost thoughtfully, “Aye, little bird, you will. And best you know sooner rather than later, so you can practice your pretty little vows. You remember what I told you? Just do as you’re told, girl, save yourself the pain. The queen will see you wed whether you go crying and screaming or not, makes no difference to her, but better for you that it’s the second. You’re nearly a woman, best you start acting it, and when your King comes up to give you your cloak and lead you down, best go along with him…And girl? Don’t be so stupid to let your little lord husband see you weep when you say your vows…he’s no gallant knight from your songs, but he could be good to you, better than the others. Won’t beat you, at least. But he sees you weeping, and there’s not much worse you can do for yourself.”

          He was right, Sansa knew it. He was cruel and mocking and awful, but he was right. _No, he’s not cruel…he only told you the truth. He only showed you what you didn’t see._ She glanced in the mirror once more and found that her dress suddenly looked ugly. She wanted nothing more than to rip it off and throw it in the fire. Footsteps came down the hallway- Joffrey and Ser Meryn, the queen, and a handmaiden carrying a folded grey cloak. Joffrey’s face was pure glee, Ser Meryn and the girl faceless, and the queen wearing a sneer. The Hound stepped aside dutifully as they reached the door and fell in step with Ser Meryn behind the king. The handmaiden unfurled the cloak, embroidered with the direwolf sigil, and threw it around Sansa’s slumping shoulders, fastening the clasp like a collar around her neck.

           “Stand up straight, little dove,” corrected the queen, with a sarcastic smile, “This is to be the happiest day of your life.” She knew full well the irony the statement held, and said it with bitter glee.  
           “No- no, _please_ , Your Grace…” she begged, but her pleas fell upon deaf ears. Joffrey sniggered and looked her up and down, but for once kept his fat lips shut. The queen placed a hand on her son’s shoulder and they turned to lead her to the sept. Sansa hesitated. _Run_. _Run, now…jump out the window, or hide under the bed where they won’t reach you, or-_

          The Hound didn’t give her a chance, he stepped up to her and grabbed her arm, pulling her up a bit by the shoulder. From afar, it looked rough, but Sansa could feel what couldn’t be seen; his grasp was firm, but gentle. She looked up, and though he was not looking at her he seemed to feel her eyes on him and gave the slightest of nods, steering her along and out the door, then giving her a gentle nudge as he released her. As she walked mechanically, she realized she was glad to have him…if he hadn’t given her a push, she might not have found it in her to move, and the others would not have been so delicate with her.

 

          She had not gone with the Hound that night at the Blackwater. He had promised her that he would keep her safe, that no one would hurt her if she went with him, but she had refused. He had taken his song and a kiss and left her alone in her bed as the walls of her bedroom flickered with green and yellow light from outside. After the battle, all was still in chaos and she hadn’t seen the Hound for days, believing him to be gone forever but not blaming him for leaving. No one said anything about him, and she hadn’t asked. It wasn’t until all was settled that she saw him once more, and he acted as though naught had happened. _You’re still here?_ She had questioned, and his mouth had twisted, _Aye, little bird. I’m still here. A dog doesn’t leave his masters._ He had walked off without a word, brooding in a drunken haze for weeks, and just when she was sure she had lost her only friend, he had been there for her.

          She had not gone with him, but he had kept the promise he’d made as much as was possible within the confines of the Red Keep despite that. True enough, she had been hurt plenty of times since that day, but when the Hound was around and when he was able, he had protected her time and time again. _The Hound is a Lannister, too…but I would sooner marry a Lannister dog than a Lannister lion…At least the dog is not half my size_ she thought, bitterly, picturing the imp’s awful face. _At least the Hound still has a nose._

 

          Through the tortuous wedding ceremony, it was the memory of her family’s strength and the Hound’s words that kept her standing. When she kissed her new husband, she thought of the Hound. And when her new husband took her hand and led her off to be bedded, it was the Hound she prayed would come to save her and take her away.


	2. Chapter 2

          The Hound was at Sansa’s side more often than not, now. Joffrey had insisted upon him as a wedding gift. The gift was poisoned, Sansa knew. _All their gifts are poisoned_. The Hound was still Joffrey’s, and while the handmaidens were Cersei’s little spies, the king had just the one faithful dog. She knew it in the way her husband said, in such a way that she did not know whether to laugh or cry, “ _Odd, how we are not prisoners, but there is an armored dog outside our door each night…No doubt my dear nephew’s notion of hospitality…or perhaps my sweet sister’s idea…”_

          She knew it in the way Joffrey sniggered at her in the hallways, the way he would grab her arm and whisper “ _Rumor has it you’re still a maiden…perhaps if my uncle can’t find his way to your bed, I will, wouldn’t you like that?_ ” And Sansa would bow her head and say the words she knew so well.  
  
           “ _If it please your Grace,”_ she would chirp stiffly, and she could almost hear the Hound mocking her for it.  _I would sooner give Joffrey a knife to the throat than my maidenhead.  
  
_            “ _But I am to be wed soon myself, it would not be proper- perhaps I shall send Ser Meryn to do the job, or the Hound_!” he would laugh, a sadistic glint in his eye. He had not yet followed through with his threat, but she still did not doubt he would if he got the chance, it would only take one night that her lord husband did not return to bed.

 

          That night eventually did come, as Sansa feared it would. _What did you expect? He knows you have no love for him, why should he come to sleep at your side each night, when you cannot even bear to look at him?_ She could not sleep nor quiet her mind, she simply stared up at the crimson canopy and counted the seconds passing until she heard a thud against her door. Her heart skipped a beat and she let out an involuntary yelp before her hand flew over her mouth. _Be still, don’t move_. There was a quiet knock at the door.

          “…Girl,” rasped the Hound’s voice, from behind the thick wood.  
  
 _Don’t answer, pretend you are asleep_ , “I’m sleeping.” _You idiot._ Her voice was scarcely above a whisper, and she knew he would not be able to hear her from behind the door. She was glad of that, as she scolded herself for such a stupid statement. Dressed in only her thin bed gown, she pushed the blankets off of her and crept barefoot to the door, every step like a condemned walking to the gallows. “I…My lord husband is here, asleep. What is it you want?” she asked.  
  
          A barking laugh, “No, little bird, I think not. Your sweet husband may be small, but not small enough to slip between the crack under a closed door. …You made a noise. I’m not here to take you off to your king, just seeing you were all right.”  
          She did not reply for a moment, closing her eyes and leaning against the wall beside the door. “You scared me.”  
  
          Another laugh, this one bitter, “Of course I did, little bird. Only a face like mine could be enough to scare you into squealing when I’m not even in the same room, is that it?”  
  
          “I thought...I heard the door, and I thought Joff- I thought the king had sent…someone.”  
  
          “Aye, little bird, I’ve heard his threats. No need to ruffle your feathers tonight. I was just leaning on the door, that’s your noise.” When she didn’t answer, he continued. “And I’ve not had any wine tonight, so I won’t be asking for any songs either.”  
          Sansa couldn’t help but laugh, the tension suddenly broken. They had never discussed what had happened that night, both understood it wouldn’t be proper. But in this moment, in jest, it comforted her deeply. It was the sort of thing a friend might say, a little joke to ease her nerves. _A friend. Is this truly what it has come to? The Hound is the closest thing I have to a friend, and even he is a spy._ There was Ser Dontos, her Florian, but each time she went to the godswood to meet him he was a little drunker. _My Florian is truly a fool. How can I trust him to save me, when he trembles more than I do?_ She was beginning to doubt she might ever leave.  
  
          She placed a flat hand on the door, “Thank you, ser.” She said, always remembering her manners.  
  
          “I am no _ser_. Best you go to bed before you wake the castle with your twittering. No one’s coming to your room tonight, little bird.”  
  
           Her heart sank a little. _Why do you insist upon your ‘sers’ when it only angers him?_ She had hoped they could continue talking, it made her feel a bit better, more at ease, and she was even beginning to feel a bit sleepy. A thought occurred to her, “Does…does the king know I am alone tonight?”  
  
          “If he does, it’s not by my doing.”  
  
          “Does he ask you?”  
  
          Sansa heard a sigh, she assumed out of frustration for all her questions, but she wanted to know. “Aye, little bird. He asks.”  
  
           “Do you-“  
  
          “I tell. I don’t lie, if I did it would be on my head, and I won’t be lying tomorrow when he asks. I’m his dog, and you’d be best to remember that always. It would be someone else telling him if it wasn’t me, and soon it would be someone else outside your door at night. I’m not the only one who knows you’re still a maiden, whole bloody castle knows. A maidenhead’s a sweet prize to take from any girl. There’s plenty worse than me, even though their faces might be prettier, plenty who don’t mind taking a little prize when your husband’s gone and all that stands between them and you is a creaky wooden door.” It wasn’t a threat, but it was a warning, and it had shaken her as it was meant to.  
  
           Sansa’s stomach twisted. She knew the Hound was tired of talk, and so she did not try to continue conversation. After three years knowing him she understood it was best not to push him when he decided he was through with talk. Without a word, she climbed back into bed and pulled the covers up under her chin. She heard the shifting of metal through the door; the Hound must have known she had left and was getting into a more comfortable position. _A hound will die for you, but never lie to you._ She wondered if the Hound would die for her. _You should have gone with him. There are no songs, he offered to rescue you and he would have, you should have let him. He offered you protection._ Part of her knew, or hoped, that he had stayed because of her. Because perhaps he knew that he would be replaced by someone else, and felt he could not leave her entirely alone and unguarded. _You should have let him take you_ she thought, as she drifted off to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sansa runs into a bit of trouble_

          The kingdom was buzzing with new arrivals from across the seven kingdoms, all trickling in slowly as Joffrey’s wedding steadily approached. Her husband was gone more often than not, making arrangements to rebuild the burned walls and find funds for the wedding, whose plans kept getting grander by the day. There were rumors of dancing bears, fighting lions, and fools of every shape and size. One could not walk from one end of a hall to the other without hearing a whisper of fire-breathers or magicians, fortune tellers and acrobats. For Sansa, this meant that she was all but invisible. The busier the castle was with other matters, the more sweet moments of solitude she was given, which she relished now more than ever.  
  
          When Tyrion told her of the fate of her brother and his army, of her mother and the wedding, she did not weep. She remained a statue, a shell, until she had been left alone, and then she had wept and wept until tears would no longer come, and her eyes felt as used and empty as her heart. He had spared her the details, she knew, but she heard them anyway from others. One of her handmaidens had brought her lemoncakes, and when she finally had the strength to lift one to her mouth, she found it tasted dry and salty, it tasted like tears. The sticky sweetness that stuck to the roof of her mouth felt like phlegm when she swallowed. The remaining cakes were left untouched until the serving girls whisked them away.  
  
          Sansa found comfort only in her dreams, when they were good, and in the moments where she could be alone, where she did not have to be the delicate little bird, reciting sweet songs to all the lords and ladies. She would walk out to the edge of the keep, to the woods or through the gardens, sometimes just to sit and stare out at the water longingly. It was on one of these solitary walks that she was reminded of who she was, of how little and helpless she was in this world.  
  
          She had avoided the commoners ever since the horrible day when the queen’s daughter had been sent away, and the peasants had thrown trash at them attacking and dragging her down off her horse. _And the Hound saved me_. Today, however, after she met with Ser Dontos in the godswood, she did not retreat back to her room straight away as she typically did. Today, she felt numb, and thought nothing of it when she made her way through winding roads, past vendors selling melons and mutton for more coin than ever before. She didn’t make it far before a thin man emerged from behind a narrow stairway, grinning a huge and toothless grin.  
  
          “Oh, a pretty maiden with fire in her hair,” he cackled, giving a deep bow, a mocking bow. The peasant’s head was bald and covered in moles, his face gaunt, and clothes soiled. He carried a small basket in one arm filled with flat, round stones. Each seemed to have been carefully washed from dust and dirt. There was something in the way he moved and spoke that indicated he was not of sound mind, the tilt of his head, the basket filled with worthless rocks.  
  
          Sansa gave a polite nod and quickly went to move on, but he reached a dirty hand out and grabbed at the hem of her skirt, “Don’t you go now, sweet lady! You’ve only just arrived!”  
  
          She recoiled, “Unhand me,” she cried in disgust, looking around, but no one paid them any mind. Sansa gathered up her skirts and began to walk away quickly, but the man only chased after her. A stone hit her on her back, it did not hurt, but it stung.  
  
          “Wait, wait! Don’t run off! I’ll have to chase you!” he called, his voice getting more manic, hysterical as he pelted her with another stone, this one clipping the side of her arm. She broke into a run, forgetting her courtesies as the shame and fear grabbed hold of her chest. _Have you ever been fucked, little girl?_  She pushed past a small crowd of people, not daring to look back, and not stopping even as some of them grabbed at her unchivalrously. The mounting tightness in her chest made it hard to breathe and soon her breathing turned to whimpers. She ran and ran, sure that the man was just behind her every step of the way until she was grabbed roughly by a mailed hand, “ _Unhand me, ser!_ ” she shrieked.  
  
          “I am no _ser_ ,” said a familiar rasp.  
  
          Sansa could not see, her eyes were stinging, but she knew who it was and suddenly she threw herself at him, pressing her cheek against his armor and clinging to him. _He saved me, again he saved me_.  
  
          Almost immediately, he shoved her away, “What are you thinking, girl?” he growled.  
  
          The blood rushed to her cheeks, “I…I’m sorry- he…was chasing me and threw-“ she looked frantically behind her, but there was no man chasing her, and thankfully no one staring at her display. They were two standing alone in a crowd of people who were entirely unconcerned with them. _Pull yourself together, Sansa, you are a lady._  
  
          “There’s no one there, little bird, calm down. Come with me.” He grasped her arm, gently this time, pulling her through an alleyway and into a winding passage, down dusty stairs and into cold, dimly lit hallways. Sansa realized he must be taking her back to the castle, they were underground.  
  
          “Please…Please don’t tell the queen I…I was just coming from the godswood…”  
  
          “Quiet, girl,” he rasped, and she fell silent. He pulled her around a corner, “What were you thinking?” he said, placing a hand on the wall beside her, looming over her and staring at her with those intense, angry eyes. He smelled of wine, she realized. _He must have been at the tavern_.  
  
          “I’m sorry- please, I was praying, I was just coming back, and he-“  
  
          “Don’t apologize to me, girl. Don’t you know better? Don’t you know better than to wander off alone? Didn’t you learn your lesson when those men pulled you from your horse, or am I meant to spend the rest of my life chopping men’s arms off?” Sansa pressed her lips together, bowing her head down. She couldn’t answer, she knew he was right. “Look at me,” he rasped, and a chill ran up her spine, remembering the last time she heard those words. She raised her watery eyes. The scarred side of his face looked even more terrible in the dim light, the shadows making each crack and crater look twice as deep, but she did not flinch.  
  
           “Were you trying to get yourself killed? Or raped?” She started to lower her head again but he took her chin in his hand and forced it up to look at him, “You’re not a child anymore, little bird. For any men that would have taken you back then, there’s twice as many who would have you now without a second thought.” She took his meaning. “Your sweet lord husband might act kindly to you, might be too half of a man to do his duties, but how much longer do you think he would be so kind, if you went and lost your maidenhead to some rat? Or if he saw the way you threw yourself at me, when you can’t take his arm without grimacing?”  
  
           “I’m sorry.”  
  
           “Don’t be sorry, girl, I’m not your keeper.” He took his hand from her chin, letting it fall, and scratched the back of his head in frustration.  “Seven Hells,” he cursed, “I said I’d protect you. I meant it. But how do you expect me to keep my word when you make it so buggering difficult? I can’t be everywhere at once, little bird. You’re lucky I was there today.”  
  
           “I know.”  
  
          Sandor Clegane stared at her. If it wasn’t for all the tears and the trembling, she _would_ be a fine prize. Even _with_ all that she was a fine prize, she had the curves of a woman, and her new dresses did not hide this fact. His lip twitched _none of that, dog. You’ve had too much drink_.  
  
          She must have sensed his gaze, because she looked up, “Are you going to tell them?”  
  
          The Hound have a gravelly sigh, “No, little bird, I’m not going to tell anyone. I will next time. Stop trying to fly away from your cage without me.”  
  
          The look she gave him then could have been a smile if she hadn’t forced herself to be faceless so often, “Thank you,” she said, mustering up the boldness to place a hand on his mailed arm.  
  
          The Hound snorted, “Aye, Little bird,” he said, giving her a little pat on the shoulder, and steering her from the wall, “Let’s get you back to your cage.”  
  
          Sansa wrapped her arm around the crook of his elbow and let him lead her, and though he stiffened a bit he allowed it for a time, until they got close to the castle. Then he untangled his arm from her and gave her a little nod, “Best walk in front now, girl.” And she did.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sansa confronts the Hound_

          Sansa was dreaming of the night of the battle, when the sky twisted in green and black, and the Hound had come to her bed. His knife kissed her throat, and when she reached up and felt his scars, they disappeared. _I could keep you safe…no one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them_. He pressed his lips to hers, but the room was suddenly lit. _Lady Sansa, Lady Sansa!_ Her imp husband called, searching for her. She peered over the edge of the bed, and he was miles underneath her, he could not see them on her bed in the clouds. The Hound grinned wickedly, then his knife turned into a crossbow, and it was Joffrey grinning at her. _If my uncle can’t do his duty, perhaps I’ll do it for him, or maybe I’ll make you the Hound’s bitch!_ He cackled. She was weeping, _please, mercy, please!_ He aimed the crossbow at her face, _I’d shoot you, too, but mother says they’ll kill Jaime._ She couldn’t breathe, _please, please!_ His fingers grasped the trigger, and there was a sudden whoosh and strum as the arrow was shot at her face. Just before it pierced her, Sansa woke, crying out into the dark and empty room. She turned to see if she had woken Tyrion, only to find he had left her alone once more.  
   
         When she reached a hand up to feel her cheek, it was hot and wet; she had been crying in her sleep. Wiping her eyes on the back of her arm, she swung her feet over the edge of the bed and stood, the cold stone welcoming her. She felt her way over to the water basin, where she splashed her face and dried it on the used towel beside the basin, hands still shaking, but less so now. Pressing her hands against the door she said softly, “Are you there?” she would have called him by name, if she had known what to call him. _Hound_ made her sound like Joffrey, but Sandor was entirely too personal…if she knew he wouldn’t get angry at her calling him “ser” or “my lord” she would have opted for that.  _Nothing I say will not make him angry_ , _nothing will please him._ “Are you-?”  
  
           “-Aye, Little bird. I’m here,” came the slightly muffled reply.  
  
          She heard the shifting of metal as he turned in toward the door, but suddenly could not recall why she had come there in the first place. “Where…where is my lord husband?” she managed.  
  
           “Didn’t say. He was dressed though…expect he won’t be back tonight.” When she did not reply, he laughed. “You screamed loud enough, though. Thinking of my ugly face again, girl?”  
  
          It was meant as a jest, Sansa knew, but when she remembered her dream she felt guilty, “I…No, it was…just a bad dream.” _Take me away_. She had the inexplicable urge to fling open the door and hug him, but her upbringing of good manners and courtesies prevented it from becoming anything more than a passing urge. Behind that was the urge to hear him speak, his voice that rasped and growled that she had once thought as terrible as his scars. She only wanted company…she hadn’t had anything resembling a conversation with anyone except for him since the Queen of Thorns proposed to marry her off to Willas. There was nothing more she could think of to say that would be appropriate. _Why did you kiss me?_ _Why did you kiss me, and make me sing for you, and make your promises, and say your goodbyes only to stay and haunt me just out of reach?_ _Only to keep me awake at night, wondering?_ Her forehead pressed to the door for a moment, but she did not speak and nor did the Hound, and so she finally turned and went back to bed.  
  
          Only just had she drifted off when the door opened, and she was grabbed. Before she could scream, his hand was clamped over her mouth and his face bent to her ear from behind, “Don’t make a peep, little bird,” he rasped, but there was urgency in his voice. She tasted metal on her lips. Without waiting for an answer he pulled her up and over his shoulder. Sansa saw the world turn upside down. _No, no I’m not dressed! You can’t!_  Her blood rushed to her head. His shoulder pressed into her stomach and he moved with surprising speed and stealth.It was a wonder to her that she could not hear her heart as it drummed against his armor. _I should scream_. Footsteps that did not belong to the Hound echoed from farther down the corridor behind them. The hallway grew narrower and colder, lit only by the occasional torch, and just as Sansa thought she might lose her stomach out her mouth, he slipped sideways through a hidden door and they found themselves in a dimly lit storage room. She didn’t know how they had gotten there, for all she had seen were stone stairs and floors rushing past. He stopped and pulled her down from his shoulder, setting her in front of him.  
  
          Dizzy, Sansa stumbled. He reached to grab her hand but she yanked it back and managed to stay upright, mustering all the woman she had in her, “You presume too much, _ser_ , I… I am _indecent_!”  
  
          The Hound only threw his head back and roared, making Sansa wish the floor was made of quicksand so that she could simply sink into it and disappear.  
  
           “Stop, stop it! Where are you taking me?” She asked, sure that their journey was not over here. _He means to kidnap me._ The longer he kept her guessing, the more Sansa’s imagination took flight and warped reality into a story from those songs she used to love so much.  
  
          Sandor Clegane was laughing no longer, his mouth twisting, “I still frighten you so much, girl?” That fact wounded him as good as any blade might, putting a sour taste in his mouth. He spat on the floor, satisfied by the incredulous look she gave him. “Bugger that. I should have left you there for your beloved king. Seems the worse that happens to you, the nicer you are to me,” he grunted. With sudden understanding and shame, Sansa realized the truth of it.  
  
           “I…am sorry. I should not have presumed…”  
  
           “Spare me your little apologies, girl. Shame on me for risking my bloody neck to save your bloody maidenhead, and for some imp. Piss on that. Next time, I’ll let the King take you.”  
  
          He was brooding and Sansa knew he didn’t mean it, but it still made her feel terribly guilty. After a moment’s silence she said, “Thank you.”  
  
          The Hound grunted and rolled his eyes. “Best we wait here for a bit. With all three of us gone, they shouldn’t think to sound any alarms, but your king won’t be pleased. He’ll expect a good excuse, we’d best think of one.” But before Sansa had a chance to begin thinking, he shook his head, “Nevermind you, girl. I’ll take care of it. Any stupid lie you think of is like to get us all thrown in the cells.”  
  
          Sansa frowned, “I am already in a cell,” she said pointedly, which left the Hound without a clever retort, for once.  
  
          The next few minutes of silence were painfully tense. They could not hear much of what was happening, only the occasional bumps, some angry voices, and with no windows not much sound came from outside. Only the sound of breathing and shifting armor were there to fill the quiet. _Ask him why_ , she thought.  
  
          When Sansa looked up at Sandor Clegane, he was staring at her intently, his mouth twisting at her surprise and embarrassment. He cleared his throat and looked her in the eye. “Never had a man look at you before?” he mocked. There was no denying what he was doing, he might as well own up to it.  
  
           Her arms folded in front of her chest. “You shouldn’t. It’s not proper. I am a lady wed.”  
  
           “Dogs don’t have to be proper, little bird.” _Can’t you say anything without trying to frighten her to her death?_ She was clearly uncomfortable by his response, her eyes boring into him, like she was searching for some other explanation. _All men are the same, girl_ he thought to say, but he managed to contain himself. Her little dress did not even cover her knees, and in the cool of the dungeon her nipples had stiffened into points, pressing two small dents in the thin fabric. _Well, she’d best get used to it…How can I not look? I’m only a man. Looks never hurt anyone._ Still, he angered himself for doing it just the same. He was made even more frustrated when he felt a familiar swelling in his trousers.  
  
           “Perhaps _you_ should get undressed and see how you like it when people stare,” she challenged, knowing not where the boldness had come from.  
  
          The Hound laughed at her moxie, “You’d like that wouldn’t you, little bird? See a real man, not a disfigured little imp. Could show you a thing or two.” _Damn you, girl._ “Stop peeping in my ear. I didn’t carry you off to chat with you all night.”  
  
            Sansa wrinkled her nose at his crude implications. “Why _did_ you carry me off?”  
  
           “Don’t ask stupid questions, girl. Another word and I’ll cut your pretty little tongue out, I’m sick of your twittering.” Sansa knew he would not.  
  
           “Then I couldn’t sing you anymore songs,” she retorted, narrowing her eyes and searching for any sign of a reaction, any emotion other than anger…she was left wanting. It was a stupid question, though. She’d only asked for an excuse to start a conversation, in place of the real question. _Ask him why._  
  
           “Bugger your stupid songs! You only ever gave me one, anyway.”  
  
           “You made me.” _When will you be alone with him like this next? When will you ever get the opportunity again? Another year? Ask him why!_  
  
           “….Aye. I did. Now I’ve half a mind to make you shut up.”  
  
           “Why did you kiss me?” she blurted.  
  
          The Hound turned his head to look at her so quickly, eyes filled with such anger that she thought he actually might strike her. “What?” he barked.  
  
           “ _Why_? Why did you kiss me? That night, after the battle.”  
  
           “I never kissed you, girl,” he spat angrily, looking disgusted and disbelieving, as if he thought she was playing a game.  
  
           “You did! Why would you deny it? You put your knife to my throat, and you made me sing for you, you kissed me and then you left!”  
  
           “Aye, I did all those things but kiss you.”  
  
           “You _did!_ ” Sansa insisted desperately, “You did kiss me!”  
  
           “I did _not_ , girl! Stop it!”  
  
           “You were drunk, you don’t remember, but I know what you did, do _not call_ me a liar!”  
  
           “I was not so drunk that I would forget that! You listen to me, girl, I don’t know why you think I kissed you, but I never did. I wanted to, and more on top of that, but I never did.” He was almost yelling, and staring at her with such ferocity that Sansa   
knew he must be telling the truth. _A hound will never lie to you._ But this only confused and upset her more. She tried desperately to recall the memory, but now she couldn’t remember which story was true, they both felt so real, but neither felt correct. _Perhaps my sanity is truly slipping,_ she thought. _Perhaps I am going mad._ She opened her mouth to protest, but no words came out, so she ended up opening and closing it like a fish, while the Hound fumed. Sansa sat, and the Hound followed suit, and they sat in silence from then on until…  
  
           “Come on, girl. They’ll be gone by now, first light’s not far off. Don’t you say a ruddy word to anyone. I’ll handle it.” He took her by the wrist, and led her back to her room, helped her pull the bed back into place from where the king no doubt thought she might be hiding, and waited patiently as she settled into bed. With a curt nod and a last searching look, he turned to leave, shutting the door behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The day of Joffrey's wedding_

          Visitors from all over had arrived to bring their gifts to the king and attend the royal wedding. The Hound couldn’t be bothered to keep track of all the lords and ladies of here or there, and none of it mattered to him, as long as they stayed out of his way. He was more brooding than usual since his encounter with Sansa. She had left him with a great deal to contemplate, and the more he thought about it the more confused and frustrated he got. Three years was a long time to not care about someone, especially a sweet girl, and the act of not caring had become a difficult chore of late. When she was not around, her face still seemed to follow him everywhere, haunting him, teasing him.  _Why does she mock me? Why does she try to toy with me? Stupid buggering bird. Stupid hound._ The downside of the crowd was that it made every tavern in the city packed at all hours, and the timing couldn’t have been worse; these past days he had a greater thirst for wine than he’d had in a while. And Sansa seemed to have as great a thirst for prayer as he did for wine, going to the godswood almost every day. This only bothered the Hound further; it stank of secrecy and made it difficult to keep a close watch on her. He’d stuck his neck out far too many times. He couldn’t afford to do so again.

 

  
          On the day of the wedding, the Hound was behind Sansa every step of the way, while her lord husband hobbled along beside her. She had found the decency to adjust her pace to match his, something she had steadfastly refused to do in their first weeks of marriage, as if acting like she didn’t notice the difference in their height might make it disappear. She’d ignored it as she had ignored his requests for her to kneel on their wedding day, forcing Tyrion to ask her to slow down every time they walked. The imp’s whore had also seemed to have disappeared, leaving Sansa short one handmaiden and the imp short a good lay. These days, the two looked almost like a proper couple, conversing for brief periods and even, on rare occasion, sharing a laugh. Sandor couldn’t understand why this bothered him even more than he had been bothered before, when Sansa’s treatment of the imp had bordered on downright cruel.  
  
           The young king was in rare form, while everyone else was on their best behavior. The fact that nobody would dare misbehave, especially not on _his_ wedding day, was not at all lost on him. The king mocked, and bullied, complained, and tormented his way through the festivities. Tension hung thick in the air and despite the free flowing wine, which the Hound helped himself to, for he was restless and uneasy. He had no love for the imp, but still his stomach twisted when the king poured the wine over his head. He made himself tune everything out, looking out across the crowd without feeling. He didn’t bat an eye when the pigeons flew from the pie the king had sliced. He stared ahead as they flapped away. Then, there was chaos.  
  
          The king was choking, and while the crowd closed in on him, the Hound immediately thought of Sansa, for he was no fool. He saw the imp pour out the wine goblet, and it was easy to connect the dots. He went to her and grabbed her arm, knocking her chair over as he pulled her up, “You, with me, now,” he growled, as the queen screamed in such agony as only a mother could. On their way out, Dontos stumbled into him. The Hound shoved him aside, “Out of my way, fool,” he snarled as Dontos protested.  
  
           “Where- where are you going?” he called frantically.  
  
          The Hound paid no mind. Sansa tried to pull away, but he felt only feeble little tugs, “Stop squirming, girl, if you know what’s good for you.” The Hound’s mind was racing, trying to work everything out. _Damn you hound, you’ve had too much wine_ … _Think…Get her out of here…She needs something to cover herself._ Quick as he could, they made their way to her chambers and he tossed her inside ahead of him before slamming the door shut and grabbing hold of her shoulders, face level with hers, “Did you do this?” he rasped.  
  
           “I- No! Of course not! I-“  
  
           “Did you have anything to do with this? Did you take any part?”  
  
           “No, please, I-“  
  
           “Look me in the eye, I will know if you’re lying!”  
  
           “Please, you’re scaring me!”  
  
           “Answer me, girl!”  
  
           “I didn’t! I don’t know what’s going on, I didn’t have anything to do with it, I swear! I don’t know- I don’t   
know what happened, please!”  
  
          The Hound did not answer immediately, his grey eyes afire as he searched her shiny blues. His mouth curled, and he pushed her in the direction of her closet, apparently satisfied with her answer, “Grab your cloak, girl. Something plain, if you have it, with a hood….and any coin you’ve got. Hurry!”  
  
          Time was precious. Sansa did not have to be told twice. She threw open the heavy oaken chest beside the matching closet, searching through folds of brightly patterned fabric and furs until she found what she was searching for- it was one of her cloaks from Winterfell, a dull, grey-blue color with a deep hood and plain metal fastening. Of coin she had none, but her husband’s small leather purse was beside the bed, so she snatched that up and threw her cloak on. The Hound pulled her hood up and over her eyes, making sure no hair was showing before he yanked her out into the hallway, looking both ways for any sign of approaching guards. When he was sure the way was clear, he sped off with the girl bouncing along behind him, trying to keep up as he dragged her by her arm. Rounding a corner they found Ser Meryn, and unable to stop herself, Sansa shrieked. Meryn needed no explanation- his eyes darted from Sansa to the Hound, and all happened in a blur.  
  
          Both men reached for their swords, Sansa was released and immediately backed up against the wall. Meryn slashed down from the Hound’s left, meeting the flat of Sandor’s sword which he had raised in a parry. Skilled as Meryn was, the bulk of his practice of late had been beating Sansa on command, rather than with actual combat, where the Hound remained a formidable and daunting opponent to any fighter, even when drunk. Sandor pushed back on the sword making steel sing, and Sansa sunk down to the floor and covered her eyes. She heard cut after cut of steel on steel and the _whoosh_  of air from each swing. The Hound was being beaten back, Sansa knew, hearing the steel bites grow closer. Any moment she would be grabbed and taken back to the queen. She heard the Hound curse loudly while she cowered, not daring to look, then a loud grunt as something wet dashed across her face…  
  
           “You all right, girl?”  
  
          Sansa released her breath, not realizing she had been holding it, and lifted her head. The Hound was covered in blood, but Meryn was covered in more, his body a heap of armor on red, wet stone, the cut that killed him not even visible. Despite feeling incredibly ill, Sansa could have kissed the Hound in that moment as she shakily stood. There was no time for that, though. Once more her arm was grasped by the Hound as his sword was sheathed, metal fingers digging deep into her flesh so that she felt her own heartbeat in her arm, leading the way for her once more.  
  
           “Stop, stop, _please_!” Sansa whimpered as he pulled her up a particularly treacherous flight of stairs, constantly losing her footing while he twisted her arm to keep her upright. The Hound either did not hear, or simply chose to ignore her pleas- there was little time and he had already wasted some getting her cloak and coin.  
  
          Down through the servant’s quarters they went, Sansa recognizing it only by the smell and the chill, for she could barely see anything of the world rushing by from underneath the hood of the cloak. They emerged outside. All around them the city was abuzz, a thousand voices speaking all at once in an incomprehensible jumble that Sansa only caught bits and pieces of as they passed.  
  
           “The wedding- yes, at his wedding!”  
  
           “Dead?”  
  
           “Poison I heard- the kitchen boy told me-“  
  
           “No, no, no!”  
  
           “He was stabbed through the heart-“  
  
           “Dark magic-“  
  
           “The imp ripped his face off!”  
  
           “I heard it was the wolf bitch!”  
  
           “The Queen’s dead to?”  
  
          It was madness, and it seemed that she and the Hound were heading in the opposite direction of everyone else, pushing their way through a sea of people. He was going too fast; she kept stumbling and her arm felt numb where he held it.  
  
          Her heart was beating in time with her feet, threatening to burst through her chest. _He’s dead…Joffrey’s dead!_ She should have been excited, but the uncertainty of everything that was happening had sent her head spinning. _Ser Dontos- what will he do? Where is the Hound taking me? I have to get to Ser Dontos!_ Those plans were dashed when they stopped suddenly and the Hound grabbed her around her waist and plopped her into a saddle facing front, whose owner she recognized as Stranger. Tyrion’s purse was snatched out of her hand and stuffed into the saddle bag and soon after the Hound followed her into the saddle, pushing her back some so that he was in front.  
  
           “Hold on tight, girl,” he rasped. She only had a moment to obey as he gave the massive horse a sharp kick, sending Sansa reeling backwards. She grabbed the Hound around the middle hard, sticking to him like glue, her cheek pressed to his armored back. The crowd seemed to part before them. They galloped straight through the portcullis without so much as a second glance from the guards, the Hound’s white cloak and all too familiar face raising no questions, and not a moment too soon. Alarm bells rang out over the city, a warning to all, a signal to shut down the city and seal off any exits.  
  
          As simple as that, Sansa was suddenly free from the castle. _What will become of Ser Dontos?_  She wondered, as the wind whipped her skirts around madly. When she finally had the courage to look back to see where they were, the orbs of torchlights on the burned walls of King’s Landing were being sucked into the horizon.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Sansa and Sandor adjust to being on the run together_

          Sansa could not tell how long they had been riding, but they had ridden through the warm night and well into the day, not a word spoken between them. With the Hound in one of his brooding moods, she did not dare ask when they might stop. Stranger’s breathing was now labored and his pace had long slowed down.  
  
          For the first stretch, the Hound had stayed on the larger main roads where the travel was faster and roads less formidable but after a time he steered them off into the heavily wooded and sometimes overgrown backroads. They had been fortunate not to run into many people, or at least nobody who cared to bother them. Sansa’s legs ached terribly, her arms were tired of holding on all too tightly, and she knew when she finally took the cloak off her hair would be all in tangles.  
  
          She had never ridden a horse so long, she _hated_ riding, especially like this…it was so inelegant. _If I had gone with Ser Dontos, at least I would be treated like a lady_ , she lamented, but she quickly corrected herself. _No, Ser Dontos was a fool…if I had gone with him, I might be dead…When the Hound took me to leave, Ser Dontos had only just arrived…He didn’t even try to follow._ Just as Sansa thought she could bear it no longer and was about to beg for rest, the Hound steered Stranger through a mass of trees and slowed to a stop alongside a creek. Sansa would have preferred a nice inn and feather bed, but right at that moment there was no finer place in the world.  
  
          Tall trees reached for the sky, their leaves emeralds in the morning dew. Roots held back the edges of the bank, and the creek was crystal clear. The water was fairly still in this area, but the sound of running water from afar indicated that it did not stay this calm for long. The Hound dismounted, arching his back to stretch his shoulders before he reached for Sansa, lifting her off the horse and placing her delicately on the ground. The soft earth felt like pillows, and was not so soft that it would muddy her clothes. _Pretty, like a song_ , she thought, with a small, tired smile.

          Sandor Clegane tied his tired horse with a long lead before turning to Sansa. He meant to take her cloak off, to play the gentleman, but when he extended his arm out she shrunk away from him. Angrily, and feeling as though he had been slapped, he dropped his hand and jerked his head toward the creek, “You’re covered in dust and blood. You can go wash yourself there, I’ll wait here.” She looked at him incredulously and he rolled his eyes. “Go on, girl. I’ve no desire to look at you- I’ve had my looks. If you want a bit of privacy, I’ll gladly go on my own…but if the thieves and rapers come, just know if I hear you scream I won’t be running to your rescue. Choice is yours, little bird.” With that, he pulled off his gauntlets and went to sit back against a tree, knowing without waiting for her reaction that he had won. As if to prove to her he had better things to focus on, he drew his bloodied blade and got to work cleaning it to keep the blood from turning his edge to rust.

          Sansa reluctantly began to undress, praying to any gods who would listen that no one should stumble upon their little camp. She folded her cloak and set it on a patch of moss that did not look too muddy, then started to undo the fastenings of her gown. Stay, shoes, and stockings came next. It was all the Hound could do not to look up, polishing away at his now clean sword. Carefully, she untangled her hair from the hairnet she had worn to the wedding, setting it aside. Sansa left her smallclothes on; a thin chemise with a scooping neckline that covered her shoulders, tight just under her breasts, whose skirt came down a couple inches past her knees. She tied the hem above her knees to keep it from getting wet, and the whole time her lips were pressed together as if the tighter she kept her mouth, the more covered she would appear.  
  
          Sandor had taken out his whetstone to busy himself on something more productive than glossing his sword until it mimicked a mirror. Stone scraped steel with rhythmic certainty, the flat of his blade resting on his leg.  
  
          Sansa eased herself into the cool water, testing the stability of the bottom with her feet and relieved to find the stone rough, not muddy. She allowed herself to step farther out from the bank, where the water went up to her knees, soft current bending around her legs. Cupping the water in her hands she began to wash herself. Limb by limb she worked, taking care not to soak her smallclothes. The cold was sweet relief to her aching muscles. The insides of her thighs were pink and rubbed raw from riding. A hot bath would have been nice, but would not have cooled the burning as the crisp creek did.  
  
          Sandor could not help but look up. With the sun just above them her chemise might as well have been see-through. He could see the curve of her body, and if he tilted his head just so he could just barely make out two little buds of pink…  
  
          The sound of the whetstone stopped and, distracted by the sudden silence, Sansa looked up at the Hound. He was caught again, but this time he had the decency to look away immediately, a dog who knew he had done something he shouldn’t have. With a deep blush on her face, Sansa shrugged away and turned herself a bit so that her back was facing him more than her front. When she bent over to wash her face, the water trailed away pink and murky, so she scrubbed until it ran clear.  
  
          Sandor wanted desperately to look again. _Don’t be greedy._ He had seen enough already, and dishonorably so. As stone dragged against steel, he began to think of her auburn hair, her porcelain skin. _Like strawberries and cream_ he thought, with a smirk. After a few minutes of behaving himself, he could stand it no longer, but when he looked up this time it was not her fiery red or ivory white or sweet pinks that his eyes went to, but the color purple that caught his eye. He had not seen it before, but with that side turned more towards him he could see clearly a deep purple bruise on her upper arm, blotches all the way up to her shoulder. There were remnants of other, older bruises as well, Joffrey’s or Ser Meryn’s work, no doubt, but there was no denying where this one came from. He gritted his teeth and looked away angrily, _Stupid dog. No wonder she flinched away from you._  
  
          His mouth tasted bitter. A blade could always be sharper, but he no longer wanted to sharpen his sword, he wanted to use it. He stood, tossing the whetstone with more force than he meant to, making Sansa turn around to look at him again. He sheathed his sword and raised his arms behind his head, pulling at the back of his neck with his hands. “I’ll be back. Won’t go far,” he growled. Sansa nodded.

          To Sansa’s dismay, her cloak and gown had both been bloodied and muddied, and both stank of horse. At least with the cloak, the stains were not as visible, but the blood-soaked hem of her dress was ruined.  She dragged each into the water, doing her best to scrub the hem free of blood, reminded of the time she found her mattress bloody. _This is not ladies’ work. Your fingers will wrinkle._ But she did not have much choice. Frustrated and unable to do much to scrub the stains, she just submerged both underwater and moved them around a bit, hoping at least to rid them of the stench.  
  
          When the Hound returned he was empty handed, but he had calmed a bit. Seeing the girl struggling, he couldn’t help but be amused. “Here, girl. Give those here,” he rasped, walking to the edge of the bank. She held the soaked garments up, defeated, and he took them from her. _Gods, that gown is heavy_ he mused, surprised that such a small thing could wear it, even when dry. He twisted the water out of each and tossed them over a low hanging branch to dry. He pointed to her stay, “Leave that when you get out, no need for it. Hairnet, too…stone’s missing anyway. No lowborn girl would wear either. Dress’ll do for now …’s better than your bloody wedding dress, with the gold buggering flowers,” he added, unnecessarily. Unfastening his own cloak, he said, “You can put this ‘round yourself when you get out, keep you covered.” He was never good at fake modesties but knew she would be glad for it. More selfishly, the cloak would help him to avoid both the temptation to look, as well as the frustration that came with it...Now, when he looked at her, he saw the bruises and it was hard not to feel disgusting and angry. _She deserves better._ He wanted to be better.  
  
          When Sansa went to climb the bank he bent to give her a hand. This time, to his relief, she took it, albeit tentatively. Without his gauntlets on, he was surprised at how smooth her hands were...and so small. It was rare for him to feel her skin in his hand like this. He pulled her up, more carefully than he ever had, almost afraid he might snap her wrist now that he could actually feel her, while her bruise only reinforced his hesitance. She turned her back to him and pulled her hair out of the way, he knew what to do: he placed his cloak over her shoulders and fastened it about her neck while she pulled it closed around her like a cocoon.  
  
          His cloak was not clean, but it did not stink- all it ever touched was his armor. The Hound, on the other hand…his smell was not _bad_ , but it was strong. Being two days in heavy armor, and gods knew how long without a bath, it was only to be expected. His face, though, that was the worst. Sticky with blood and sweat, and muddied with all the dust, both sides of his face looked shades darker than usual. Each crease and fold of skin was veined dark brown, pores caked black with dirt, like soot.  
  
           “Your face…” she said, without thinking.  
  
          He snorted, “Not pretty, is it? Afraid I can’t change that, little bird.” Then, feeling inexplicably guilty, he rolled his eyes and went to bend down at the edge of the bank, cupping water in his hands and splashing it on his face, getting rid of the worst of the grime with a few scrubs up and down. He wicked water off his mouth with his hand, “There. Best I can do. Afraid the scars don’t wash off, though.”  
  
           “No- no, I didn’t mean- it’s not that, it’s just- hold on-“ _So defensive_. She took the flask from the horse’s side, uncorked and turned it over to empty it. The Hound would have yelled for pouring out his wine, but as it turned out he had already nursed the flask dry. After filling it with water from the creek, she went to her hanging dress and searched the pockets, peeling apart the wet folds before finding what she sought. It was a white cloth, with a small faded red stain on it, which the Hound recognized within moments from the day Joffrey had taken her up to see Ned Stark’s head. She shook it out and went to him, pointing at the tree he had leaned against earlier. “Here. Let me…”  
  
          He understood, and shook his head, “No,” he rasped.  
  
           “ _Please_.”  
  
          His mouth twisted. He knew the truth of it: he had the pleasure of looking upon her fair face, while she had only his ugly, distorted visage. It wouldn’t be _proper_ for her to wash his face, but he understood why she wanted to do it, and he couldn’t very well deny her, no matter how much he wanted to. _Why complain? She wants to clean your face, fine. Bugger her ‘proper’._ “Fine.” A dog, defeated by a little bird. He slumped down against the tree, and turned the bad side of his face away from her. She knelt down between his legs, after making sure doing so would not get her knees muddy, and handed him the flask to hold. Neither of them were used to being quite this close, at least not by choice, and he could see her wheels turning as she tried to work out the most appropriate way of going about this task. “Well, go on, get on with it,” he grumbled. “B’fore I change my mind.”  
  
          After a bit of squirming, she finally just went for it. The cool wet cloth touched his cheek and he flinched at her delicacy. Somewhat startled, she paused, but with an impatient nod from him she continued. She wiped his face with the same tenderness as a mother would a child, down from the bridge of his nose, over his cheek, and down to his jaw, following its edge. When she held the handkerchief out, he would tip the flask to soak it clean, and she would resume, stray beads of water trailing down his skin and getting caught in his beard. She wiped across his brow from one end to the other, smooth skin turning to hard ridges under her fingers.  
  
           “The other side, now,” she said softly.  
  
          He knew she needed him to turn his head, and strong as he was this seemed an impossibly difficult task. _Don’t do it._ Then, _Why do you suddenly care what she thinks?_ More than once, he thought of just shoving her away, but she waited patiently and finally he conceded, exhaling sharply as he turned his bad side to her and looked down, not wanting to meet her gaze or see the disgust in her face. _You’re hideous_ he imagined her saying.  
  
          Sansa kept her face still as steel. _Do not flinch_ _._ His face was ugly, twisted like the faces of the weirwood trees, but she had seen it all before, and knew what to expect. She swallowed. With a quiet hand, she pushed away the hair that served to shield the worst of his burns. Sandor tensed.  
  
           “You don’t have to-“ he began, but she silenced him by raising the cloth to his face.  
  
          She wiped across his lips and over the scarred flesh. It was not a pretty sight, the discolored remnants of what was once a complete face, but she knew if he sensed her disgust he would take it personally. The last thing she wanted to do was to hurt him, not when he had shown her such…was it kindness? In truth, it was hard to tell, especially when the bruises on her arm served as a chilling reminder of what he was capable of. _He didn’t mean to._ Still, as hard a man as he was, she had seen the man beneath the helm, the human side of the guarded Hound…she was thankful for that glimpse, at least, allowing her hard heart to soften to him gradually, to see past his many faults.  
  
           “Does it…hurt?” she asked carefully.  
  
          He shook his head, “Can’t hardly feel anything.”  
  
          She seemed to relax a bit, then, working with the same steadiness as she did when embroidering, like it was natural. Without thinking much of it, she leaned forward, pressing the palm of her hand on his armored chest to support her as she worked her way along the ridges, taking care to ease captured dirt and dried blood from the divots in his scarred flesh. It was difficult to imagine that he felt nothing, that it was not somehow a perpetually fresh wound.  
  
          _Gods_ , he cursed to himself. He could practically feel her breath on his skin, and he had a difficult time remembering to breathe on his own with her hand pressed to him. With a glance down he saw that the folds of his cloak had parted, teasing him with a glimpse of her smallclothes. He swallowed hard, realizing how close she really was; on her knees her breast was little more than a foot away from his downturned face. He closed his eyes, trying to will away the stirring in his loins.  
  
           “Oh- you’ve been cut,” Sansa said concerned and unaware of the Hound’s predicament, pulling the cloth back from a gash on the side of his head, the same place he had been wounded before, nearly a year ago.  
  
           “Won’t be the first time, little bird. I’ll be fine,” he said stiffly. “Are you finished?”  
  
          Sansa paused to inspect her handiwork then nodded. The Hound let out a sigh of relief, “Good, get up,” he ordered, keeping his eyes fixed to the side. Thankfully, she got up without a question, but the cloak remained open. He quickly stood as well, forcing her to step back a couple paces. Sansa noted that he seemed to shift uncomfortably, tugging his armored tunic down some. “Time you threw that away, now,” he pointed out. The cloth in Sansa’s hand was soiled brown and red, not worth the effort of trying to clean. Neither had realized how dirty his face really was, and Sansa couldn’t help but feel he looked rather handsome now that he was cleaned up a bit, at least on the one side. The rest couldn’t be helped, but she had grown used to it over the years, the burns no longer frightened her, at least.  
  
          He felt her eyes studying his face, only making him feel more uncomfortable. Desperate to end it, he turned and grabbed her gown, clenching the soft fabric in his fist before pulling it down off the branch where it hung and thrusting it at her, “Here. It’s dry. I’ll have my cloak back now, pretty bird.”


	7. Chapter 7

          Sansa had redressed herself as best as she could without her handmaidens. Had she been wearing one of her plainer dressed from Winterfell, she could have accomplished this task easily, but these Southron gowns had so many ties and folds that it took her the better part of an hour to figure everything out while the Hound watched in sullen amusement. At least she did not have to re-lace her stay...that, she was thankful for. Smoothing out her skirts, she turned to the Hound. “Why did you take me?”  
  
          “You don’t know?” he asked, and she knew he was mocking her. When she didn’t answer, he said, “Said I’d keep you safe, girl, I wasn’t lying. If they blame the Imp- and they will- you’ll go down with him no matter how much you cry, and beg, and curtsey. Any excuse for them to throw you in a cell.”  
  
          She chose to ignore his stab at her, “Yes, well, I know that but… you said yourself that…you said you’d only protect me if you could. But you never helped me if it meant going against the Lannisters…so, why now? Everyone will know you took me. They’ll go after you.”  
  
          He shrugged, “Aye, and forget about you, what do you think they do to the king’s men when the bloody king dies under their watch, hm?” He saw her realization, and nodded. He decided to leave out the fact that she could be quite valuable. He meant to keep her safe, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t get some gold out of it either, especially if he found some family willing to pay. More than once, the thought crossed his mind to sell her to anyone, kin or not, but each time it happened he found himself feeling guilty. “The little bird understands now.”  
  
          She sighed at the jab and changed the subject, tired of the insults. “Will we find an inn?” she asked.  
  
          The Hound laughed at her, “Aye, one day, but not today.”  
  
           “But…where are…Where am I to sleep?” she asked, hesitantly.  
  
          The Hound just grinned unpleasantly and waved an open hand, “Anywhere you like.”  
  
           “On the _ground?_ ”  
  
           “On the ground, up a tree, whatever pleases you, _my lady._ ”  
  
          Sansa knew she was being childish, she knew it, but she felt like such a criminal. She did not know where they were going or how long it would be. So much had changed so suddenly, and she just wanted one thing that would remind her of being a lady, instead of a fugitive. She was free of Joffrey, but her family was dead, she had no home, and she felt no better than she ever had. And gods, she was _tired_. “I can’t sleep on the ground!”  
  
          The Hound shrugged, bored of her haughtiness. “Don’t have to sleep.” _About time she learned how real people live._  
  
           “Don’t _shrug!_ Stop it, it isn’t funny, and I won’t. I won’t do it. There are…animals, and it could rain, or someone could kill us. I won’t sleep unless it is on a bed.”  
  
          The Hound was unconcerned, “You’ll be awake for a long while, then, little bird.”  
  
          Angrily, she took her cloak and spread it on the ground, sitting upon it so as not to get her dress dirtier. “I would like a fire,” she stated stiffly, raising her eyebrows and looking up at him expectantly.  
  
           “No fire.”  
  
          If the rudeness of it had not been ingrained in her, she might have rolled her eyes. Instead she just gave him a look of disbelief. She had thought it a simple request, something that at least would give her one tiny victory, but this she was being denied as well. “I’m _cold_. Fire keeps animals away, and bugs.”  
  
           “No fire,” he said again, firmly. “Fire attracts as much as it keeps away, and you’re not bloody cold. I’m not your buggering servant, girl. We’ve nothing to cook, so no fire.”  
  
           “But-“  
  
           “Seven _Hells_ , girl!” he cursed, losing his patience. It had been admittedly somewhat cute, at first, but she just kept twittering in his ear and it seemed endless. No matter what he did, no matter how good he tried to be or how hard he tried to please her, she never seemed happy. It was only the stupidest things that made her smile or even get close to some semblance of happiness or contentment. _Even when she sang her stupid song to me she wasn’t happy about it, I had to force it out of her._  
  
          Sansa’s arms were folded in front of her, and she was determined to remain still and poised despite her exhaustion. It hurt when he cursed at her, when he glared, but she refused to cry. _He is as stubborn and uncultured as Arya._ Her lips were a thin line, she did not want to speak again, only for fear he might _force_ her to shut up. The Hound stood glaring at her for a time before he turned on his heel and trudged off. Sansa did not want to give him the satisfaction of asking where he was going, or asking him to stay, despite the falling sun. It was then to her embarrassment that she realized it was _she_ who was being as stubborn as Arya, and as selfish.  
  
          She even _missed_ Arya. When last she saw her, Arya had been chasing cats again, all scratched up and muddy. _Those stupid cats, and her dancing lessons_ she thought, rolling her eyes. She couldn’t imagine Arya _ever_ dancing, gods only knew _what_ they were doing. _But where did she go? Is she even alive now? Surely…surely if she were alive she would have told me, somehow._ It was with a heavy pit in her stomach she realized that Arya may well be the only family she had left in the world, if she had any.  
  
          The absurdity made her laugh hollowly, for the universe had a cruel sense of humor.  
It was growing ever darker, and Stranger did not make very good company. She lay back on the cloak, hugging her knees with her arms. _I will have to apologize to the Hound when he returns_ , she thought, blinking with heavy eyes.

          When the Hound did return, he could just barely see, and was glad that the moon was full. He found Sansa curled up on her cloak, sleeping deeply. He shook his head, and got down on the ground beside her, keeping a respectful distance and turning his back to her. Before long, he too joined her in the land of dreams.


	8. Chapter 8

          When morning came, the Hound was the first one up. Sansa was still fast asleep, spread out over her cloak. With a grunt, Sandor stood and began to prepare for the day’s travels. He hadn’t quite worked out _where_ they were going, but north seemed like a good start, perhaps The Eyrie. She had an aunt there, she’d be safe no doubt, and he might be able to collect a hefty amount of gold, too.  
  
          When everything was in order, he donned his gauntlets and threw his bloody white cloak in the river, as the cloak would only attract more attention from this point on. He went about this noisily, in the hopes that it would wake Sansa, but she only rolled over. Scratching the back of his head, he discarded the idea to nudge her awake with his boot, knowing it would only give him grief.  
  
          Instead, he grabbed the corner of the cloak she lay on and gave it a tug, “Girl. _Girl_.” Rolling his eyes, he finally bent down and gave her a little shake on the shoulder, rendering her awake instantly, blue eyes blinking in the morning light. “Time to go, little bird.”  
  
          Sansa stretched and winced, her every limb ached terribly, even more than it had the day before. She could not recall the dreams she had, but still she wished she could go back to sleep and never wake up. She was awake now, though, so with stiff muscles she rose and shook out her cloak before pulling it around her shoulders. Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she gave the Hound a tired nod. As usual, he gripped her around the middle and lifted her up on the saddle, still baffled by how tiny her waist was, or how big his hands were, that his fingers could nearly touch when wrapped around her. “In front this time, little bird. Easier for you, we won’t be riding fast,” he instructed, waiting for her to get comfortable and scoot forward before mounting himself.  
  
          Sansa suddenly remembered herself, “I’m…I’m sorry for my behavior last night. It was not…fair of me, when you have been so good to me,” she said, rather embarrassed with herself. The Hound only grunted to show he heard, and she figured that was the best she could hope for aside from a lecture about her ‘empty’ apologies. “…Where are we going?”  
  
           “North,” he rasped, simply. It was still early, she couldn’t blame him for not wanting to talk, but still she would have liked _something_ , some reassurance. She trusted the Hound more than most, but she was not as naïve as she once was. She knew how easily the seeds of betrayal could be planted, how easily greed could change a man’s alliances, and she was wary of being promised much while being told next to nothing. Later, she would press further, she resolved.

 

          Well, Sandor _thought_ that having the girl ride in front would be easier for her, but he was being proven entirely wrong. _Damn girl is so attached to her courtesies she can’t sit still for two bloody seconds_. She kept scooting forward, then the horse’s movement would slide her back, she was making herself tiny and trying to keep from leaning back against him or really having to touch him at all.  
  
          He’d had enough of it. “Damn you, girl, stop _squirming_ ,” he rasped.  
  
           “Sorry,” she said, and he rolled his eyes.  
  
           “Have you never been on a horse with a man?”  
  
           “When I was younger, my…father would take me riding with him sometimes.”  
  
           “And did you squirm like that when he took you riding?”  
  
           “Well, no, but-“  
  
           “So _cut it out_. You’re only making it hard for yourself. And hard for me. So stop it, or I’ll bloody well throw you in the back and be happier for it.”  
  
          Sansa clenched her jaw. She didn’t like riding in the first place, but she felt awkward in front, with him towering over her, his arms on either side, like a cage, like she was a little girl. But holding onto him from behind _was_ a difficult task. If she had a horse of her own, it wouldn’t be such a problem. In Winterfell, she had her own horse. Well, a pony, in truth, but it was her own all the same. A beautiful chestnut pony with a black mane. Not that she rode much, but…  
  
          The Hound pulled Stranger to a stop. “Seven _hells_ , girl, do you ever stop daydreaming?” he rasped. Frustrated, and a bit flustered from enduring her squirming, he put a hand on her stomach and pulled her back into him, “You sit here.” He took her arms, one at a time, despite her protests, and put them at the horse’s neck, “You hang on here, or you grip the leathers, and if you feel like you’re sliding, hang onto the mane or _tell_ me and don’t fucking touch the reigns. Don’t squirm. And don’t lean forward or you’ll only make it harder on yourself. Think you can bloody well manage that?” he growled. She nodded meekly, and with a satisfied huff he gave Stranger a little kick to get him going again, “Good.”  
  
          She sat stiffly for the first hour until her body begged for her to relax, and she conceded. The Hound was relieved that she had finally stopped her childish modesties, and felt he was able to relax more himself once he finally felt her weight shift back against him, her back and shoulder to his chest. He didn’t mind the closeness, but if he could find a horse for her to use, he’d just as soon have her ride separately. He knew she was still a maiden, but didn’t know how much she knew about men, if she’d even been taught anything at all…If she _did_ know anything, then having her on a separate horse could avoid a lot of potential awkwardness.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which the duo come across a burned village, and Sansa learns some difficult truths_

          They smelled the village before they saw it, the stench of smoke and death that hung over it like a cloud carried south by the wind. Sansa craned her neck up to look at the Hound, a disgusted and questioning look in her eyes, but before she could ask he nodded his head up, signaling her to look ahead. Within moments, as they approached the top of a small hill, he heard Sansa’s horrified gasp, her hand flying to her mouth, turning back to look at the Hound with a face of _why-didn’t-you-warn-me?_ His face was still, as usual, for this was not an unfamiliar sight to him.  
  
          Whatever this nameless village once was, it was only the burnt skeleton that remained, a shadow of its former self. The green grass turned to black as it approached the village, like a line drawn around it to warn “Do not pass.” In some areas, though there was no fire, the ashes were still smoldering from within, emitting small plumes of smoke as they struggled to drain every last bit of nourishing fuel from whatever it was the ashes had once been. Some areas looked almost untouched by the fire, but they were broken down at looted just the same. Perhaps most chilling were the bodies, people of all sizes strewn about like ragdolls, bent in all manner of unnatural positions, as if a giant fist had flung them down angrily as an upset child would a toy. Some were fighters who had been pierced with arrows or other weapons which were still lodged in their target, others were simply the product of war, the collateral damage.  
  
          Sansa realized with a sickening twist of her stomach that burned bodies were not what she imagined: when her Septa told stories of dragons burning cities to the ground, she pictured the burned bodies like silhouettes, like black, ashy clay molded into the most basic human shape. Instead, these bodies were quite clearly human, flesh colored and still, with patches of deep reds only outlined in black where they had been touched by flame, oozing and waxy, visible faces with their last moments stuck on forever. For a moment, Sansa wondered if this was what the Hound looked like when he had been burned, but the thought of it made her sick, suddenly all she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears.  
  
          Sandor Clegane pulled the horse to a stop. “Why- Why are we stopping?” asked Sansa, almost frantically, tasting bile in the back of her throat.  
  
           “Might find something useful. No one left here who has any need for anything,” he explained, then without warning he grabbed her round the middle and let her down off the saddle until her feet touched ground, following closely behind. Stranger was tied to a crooked horse post outside the small stone wall surrounding the village. When he looked back at Sansa, she was incredibly still and wide-eyed. “Come on, girl.” He was waiting for her to protest, to say how wrong it would be to loot a dead city, to argue her morals and courtesies until she was blue in the face and he was red with rage. Instead, he was met with tight-lipped silence and obedience; she followed. The Hound disliked her brooding as much as he disliked her daydreaming, but at least her brooding was silent, so he didn’t fight it. _This is the world. She ought to know it._  
  
          While the Hound stepped through the carnage and rubble without much hesitation, Sansa took her time, inching around bodies and avoiding any ground that was not relatively flat. Any doors which were not already blown open or burned away, the Hound kicked open and took a look at the rooms behind it, seeing if there was anything worth searching or taking. It wasn’t until the tenth burnt hut that he found anything that interested him. The inside was surprisingly unburnt, all its residents present and dead around the table, necks slit. The food in front of them was rotting and unrecognizable, plates were strewn across the table and floor. None of the family were warriors, although it was possible any warring members of the family were out of the house at the time, if they had even been killed during whatever battle ravaged the town. Only one side of the house was burnt badly, the rest was relatively intact with its mud-and-stone walls and general lack of many wood furnishings, save for the table and chairs. When Sandor heard a shocked, sudden whimper behind him he knew Sansa had just caught up.  
  
           “Look for anything of use. Food, gold… that girl’s near your size, might could fit in her shoes.” Sansa’s boots would not do on the road, with their tight laces and hard, fancy leather. He could only imagine the blisters she must have, since like everything else her shoes were made to be pretty, not practical. The dead girl’s dress was covered in blood, soiled- a shame because it would have been good for Sansa as well, though perhaps a bit tight. He searched the kitchen’s shelving and storage for any food that hadn’t rotted. There was some stale bread which he stuffed in an emptied sack of grain (they had no use for grain on the road). There were even jars of jam, which would have been promising if most had not already been smashed. A couple pieces of salted meat wrapped in cloth was also pocketed.  
  
           “What…happened here?”  
  
          The girl was still standing near the door, not used to such horrors as the Hound was, not as able to compartmentalize. He continued his work while he answered, “The war.”  
  
           “But…it’s just a little village. Why would they…?”  
  
           He kicked in one of the inside doors with a heavy boot, for the wood had been warped. A bedroom, perfect. He made his way to the chests, some of which had already been looted, some left closed, and began his searching. “Could be anything, or no reason. Your septa never told you that, I suppose? It’s not only soldiers that die in wars, little bird. Some people- some knights- just like to watch cities burn.” _Gregor_. This village had his brother’s name written all over it, but of course he couldn’t be sure. He stuck his fingers under the edge of the mattress and pulled up hard, flipping it on its end. He smirked, grabbing a leather pouch that had been hidden beneath the mattress and giving it a shake- it wasn’t much, but no doubt it had been this family’s precious savings…most warriors who looted went for only what was right in front of them, the quick, the big, the easy, the shiny. It was the vultures, those who came well after the fact, that had the time and patience to really search, to look where others had not. Sansa had followed him to the doorway, still clearly wearing her own shoes.  
  
           “It isn’t _right,_ ” she said, softly.  
  
           “No, little bird. But that’s how the world is,” the chests were mostly emptied, but he found the one he was looking for, the one that had clearly housed the dead girl’s clothes.  
  
           “Someone should bury them.”  
  
          He laughed hollowly, “Aye. And will you be the one to do it?”  
  
           “…No, but-“  
  
           “Nor will I. Piss on that.”  
  
           “But-“  
  
           “It’s my job to kill people, not dig graves for them. I’m no gravedigger, little bird.” He glanced back at her stoic expression, and convinced himself to add, “Someone will be along to bury them eventually. They’ll….have their rest.” He was annoyed at himself for giving in, and felt silly saying it. He cared not for such things, and he cared not for her naivety…but she’d had enough shock for one day, enough lessons, it wouldn’t _kill_ him to take a break from scaring the life out of her, though doing so was never his _intention_ , it just seemed to always happen. It seemed to satisfy her, because she did not press further. “Look in here, see if anything fits. Not that one, though, too bright.”  
  
          Her nose wrinkled. She walked up to the chest he stood by and began to sift through the clothes. _Gods forgive me._ She pulled out one of the blue dresses, light, but subtle. It looked to be about her size, so she turned to the Hound for approval.  
  
          He gave a nod, “Well, go on then.” She looked up at him pointedly, so he rolled his eyes and walked out of the room, making a show of pulling the bent door closed behind him.  
  
          When Sansa emerged, she was wearing the dead girl’s dress under her own cloak. It was certainly a bit tight, especially around her chest, but for the most part was the right size. Low born girls didn’t have the luxury of tailors and dressmakers anyway, nor could they afford to constantly buy fabric, so it wouldn’t look so bizarre if her dress did not fit perfectly. The dress was of a rougher fabric that Sansa had not worn since going to King’s Landing. It wasn’t soft silks or velvets, it was practical, with a simple cord belt that tied around the middle and made Sansa feel like she was in the North again, despite them still being only a few days’ ride from the castle. The Hound was waiting for her with the dead girl’s shoes in hand, having taken the liberty of removing them from the corpse so Sansa did not have to.  
  
          Looking rather ill at the prospect, she took the soft shoes and set them beside her, bending down to unlace her own boots. It took a couple minutes before she was able to wiggle her feet out of the stiff, patterned leather, and when she did it was clear that going barefoot probably would have been a better choice than wearing those boots for days. Her stockings were stained deep brown at the soles of her feet, discoloring from the leather, and there were distinct spots of dried blood where the constricting boots had rubbed away at her feet. She wiggled her toes around and stretched her blistered feet in relief, one at a time, letting them have a breath of air before she donned the soft shoes of the dead girl. The dead girl did not have the same dainty feet as Sansa did, there was a good half inch of space between her heel and the heel of the shoe. Luckily, the shoe did have laces along the top, which would at least help to keep the shoes from slipping off with each step.  
  
           “That’ll do,” said the Hound. It was the finest compliment Sansa had received in days.  
  
          Then, with his sack happily weighted with enough meager provisions for a few days, and the clothes of her old life cast aside, the duo returned to Stranger, who was pawing at the dead ground. It would have been nice to sleep on a bed, or at least with a roof over their heads, but the Hound was just as happy to sleep in the forest and not worry about the girl arguing the moral implications of sleeping with the dead. He lifted the girl onto the saddle and got up after her. For the rest of their ride, she barely made a sound, staring vacantly ahead as she did so often at the castle.  
  
          It was only after those long hours of painful silence that Sandor Clegane realized he did not truly dislike the little bird’s chirping, if only for the fact that the sound of her voice served as a comforting reminder that she was still with him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which they find an (almost) abandoned farmhouse_

          After a night’s rest and meal of stale bread, followed by nearly fourteen hours of slow riding, Sansa’s mood had not lifted. The village was not the last of the burned and razed lands they passed, though she had finally stopped gasping at each one. At long last they reached a solitary farm, far from any roads, which had not been burned and pillaged. It consisted of a lonely stone house with thatched roof, accompanied by a rotting wooden barn that leaned precariously to the left. The wood fence that once surrounded the barn and lands had toppled in some parts, and the grass grew tall in the absence of many animals to feast upon it. The fields that once bore crops had overgrown with weeds. Some hundred feet from the house was a small well with a bucket turned on its end beside it. Everything was still and quiet, save for the rustling of the dry grasses in the wind, removed from interference from the outside. Still, despite the tableau before them, the fact remained that it had clearly been abandoned, and whatever the previous owners’ reasons had been, whatever danger it was that forced them to leave their secluded little home, might still be near.  
  
          It was with wariness that the Hound rode up the faded dirt path, and dismounted. Before Sansa could move to join him he said, “You wait here. Anyone comes, scream. Anything happens, run. That way’s north.” Sansa nodded.  
  
          Sandor approached the house first, listening carefully for any obvious sounds from within before pushing through the door. Weather had bent the wood on this door as well, causing it to catch on the dusty floor, only opening about halfway. The floors were dirt, with old, worn carpets and mats strewn around. It was essentially one very large room with a couple walls dividing the space. There was a table for four and chairs, cupboards in one corner, a hearth for cooking in the other. Behind one of the walls was a poorly set up bedroom.  
  
          There was a wooden bedframe, covered in torn cloth and feathers, the remains of what was once a mattress, clinging to the wooden skeleton like a cobweb. There was a smaller pile of hay covered by a couple blankets, another bed. A stone tub was against the far wall next to a small stove. An overturned table, a broom, some strewn about clothes, and some firewood were all else that seemed to be left in the house. Behind another wall was a small door, behind which were crudely put together stone steps leading down underground. Sandor was nearly too large to fit, but he managed, going very slowly. It was only a storage area, no doubt where they kept food and harvest. Now, it was barren. “Bloody useless fucking farm _”_ he cursed angrily. It was no wonder no squatters were here, there was nothing to take, nothing to live off of, just emptiness. He made the short climb back upstairs, his metal shoulder scraping along one side of the narrow wall.

          When he emerged from the house, the girl was still waiting patiently on the horse, just where he left her. He thought he saw her give him a smile, but as soon as he saw it, it was gone, probably just a trick of the light or a hopeful imagination. He went to the barn next, not yet calling for her to approach. He stepped over a toppled part of fence and strode up to the doors. Again, he listened before entering. These doors swung open effortlessly, without a sound, cut a bit too small for the doorway that held them- not a problem in the south, but in the north would mean death for the animals when winter came. A large, dark rat emerged from a pile of hay, crawling up the wall and over one of the barren food troughs, before disappearing around a corner. He heard movement of something larger from where the rat had disappeared, then a groan. He stepped farther into the dark end of the barn, as quietly as he could manage wearing his clanking armor, hand gripping the hilt of his sword.

          The source of the noise was a young man, no more than eighteen, cradling a wineskin. _With any luck, there might be some left._ Without giving the boy the chance to wake fully, the Hound bent down and drew his dagger, pressing the steel to his jaw and clamping his other hand down over his mouth, his knee sitting across the boy’s chest. The boy was well awake now, wide, pleading eyes, breathing hard into the Hound’s metal hand, trying to grab something just out of reach from underneath the straw.  
  
           “Tell me true, or I’ll cut your throat: Is there anyone with you, boy?” the Hound rasped. The boy shook his head, “Is there _anyone_ else here?” he rasped again, and still the boy shook his head.  
  
          Sandor Clegane stared hard at him for a moment searching for a sign of deceit, then he turned his blade and drew the dagger across his throat, slicing deep as blood poured down like wine from an open cask. When the boy ceased moving, he wiped the dagger clean on the boy’s pant leg and sheathed it. When he kicked the hay where the boy had reached, he found a small little knife, no more than four inches from the base of the hilt to the tip, but sharp just the same, so he took it, along with the wineskin which upon shaking proved to have a few good drinks left in it. _The gods **are** good_ he thought sarcastically. As he left, he considered climbing to the upper part of the barn, until he saw the ladder that led up…there was no chance of it supporting his weight, made of rope and crudely tied sticks, not to mention the whole barn might collapse even if he could.  
  
          He hoped the girl would not notice the fresh bloodstains…he wasn’t entirely sure why he cared, but he told himself it was because he didn’t want her to ask questions. When he emerged from the barn, he waved her over, stepping back towards the main house. Sansa gave the horse a tentative nudge, and true to form Stranger stomped about rather angrily. She held tight to its mane, but it wasn’t until Sandor made a rough clicking sound with his tongue that the horse actually approached, saving her from further embarrassment.  
  
          Keeping to their usual ritual, he tied the horse to one of the pieces of fence, and turned to help Sansa down, but in a flurry of cloth she slid down herself. Not used to the height of Stranger, she miscalculated the drop. With lost footing she stumbled back and he was there to catch her, one hand grasping her shoulder, the other pressing to the small of her back to steady her.  
  
           “Thank you,” she chirped. _Always with the damned manners_ …though he was glad to hear her speak finally.  
  
           “If you’d had the sense to wait I’d have helped you down,” he grumbled. Then he pulled the little knife from his belt, “Take this. Might be you need it someday,” grasping the blade and pointing the hilt to her.  
  
          She took it and stared dumbly, “I...wouldn’t know how to use it,” she said, hesitantly.  
  
           “It’s not hard. I’ll teach you.” With that, he handed her the sack of food from the last village, which still had some bread and salted meat left, “We’ll stay here tonight. Longer, if the well’s not dry.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sandor learns about clouds, Sansa learns about knives_

          The well was not dry, but the water was murky, so they boiled it and gave it to Stranger first. Sandor slept on the floor, Sansa on the straw bed. By the next morning when they found Stranger alive and fearsome as ever, they figured it would be better to suffer the stale taste than to die of thirst. By the end of the day, the water was being drawn up clear.  
  
          Sansa’s mood, however, was still dark. She sat at the window, looking out at the large fields and up at the clouds, moving only to eat or to go relieve herself. After having drained the wineskin, his only other source of comfort, he could take her silence no longer.  
  
           “What are you looking at?” he finally asked, his question sounding a bit more accusatory and harsh than he meant it.  
  
          Sansa shrugged, “The clouds.”  
  
          He gritted his teeth, “Why?” he asked, in the most even tone he could muster. “Going to fly away?” _Must I beg for her to speak now?_  
  
          She ignored his little joke, to his annoyance, “The clouds are pretty. They don’t change, just like the stars…they move, but they can’t be burned, or destroyed…They’re _always_ pretty. And they make shapes…our septa used to tell us stories from the shapes we found in the clouds,” she said wistfully. It occurred to Sandor that she seemed to be speaking more to herself than to him.  
  
          He walked up to where she sat, bending down a bit to look out the window to the sky, a bare hand on the wall beside her, “What shapes?”  
  
          She didn’t take her eyes off the sky, pointing up, “Well, that one there looks like a shepherd, or a man holding a spear, for example.” His eyes followed her finger, but all he saw were puffs off white.  
  
           “That one looks like a bush.” He rasped flatly, rolling his eyes, only half-serious.  
  
          She didn’t take his tone, “Yes! So…perhaps, one of the shepherd’s sheep ran off and went to hide behind the bush!” she giggled, “You see?”  
  
          He didn’t. But this was the most she’d said in days, and she was smiling, and he _missed_ that, so he said, “…Hm.” To him, the clouds were just clouds, and they looked like clouds, and that was it. When he tried to see it her way, not much changed; he saw cotton, and white bushes, and white fluffy sheep like the ones children drew in the dirt. _And white fuzzy mold. And bird shit._  
  
          The clouds had slowly shifted, “Now that one looks like a white knight on a horse…with a big feather in his helmet,” she said, looking up at the sky with a smile, “And he’s rescuing that cloud there, the one that looks like someone falling. So…she’d a maiden and someone tried to rob her…” her voice trailed off as her mind pulled her attention into the story it was forming.  
  
          The Hound suddenly no longer wanted to hear about her stupid game, about the shapes in the cloud that were always pretty. He turned and pulled away from the wall. _It’s not her fault_. She had turned her head to look at him, still smiling. He wanted to yell at her. To shake her and tell her there were no white knights, there were no pretty stories, and _I’m sorry that you’re stuck with an ugly dog like me but you need not remind me how miserable you are every chance you get, I’m the closest buggering thing to a knight you’ve bloody got!_...But she was _smiling_ and he had not forgotten how miserable those silent days had been, so he just tried to forget it and change the subject.  
  
           “Come here, girl. Bring your knife, let me show you how to use it.”  
  
          She looked back out the window longingly, and for a moment he thought she would refuse, but thankfully she did come over, pulling the knife out of her pocket. He sat on the straw bed, leaning back against the wall. “Your septa’s stories ever tell you how to kill a man?”  
  
          She thought for a moment, “In the stories, the men get their heads chopped off, or they’re stabbed through the heart.”  
  
          He laughed, “Aye, that’s one way to do it, but not with that little thing, or your little hands.”  
  
           “Why not?” she asked, a bit offended. It seemed a simple thing- perhaps not chopping off heads, but she had seen men stabbed and cut before, and the metal went through their skin like butter. And she wasn’t _that_ little- Arya was smaller than she was, and she played with the practice swords all the time.  
  
          His mouth twisted, “Give it a go, see how it works for you.”  
  
          She balked, “ _What?_ ”  
  
          “Trust me, little bird. Go on,” he rasped with a nod, unfolding his hands from across his chest.  
  
          Sansa wasn’t exactly sure what to do, this seemed like some sort of trick, like if she stepped close he would smack her across the face. But as she took a halting step forward, he just looked at her with his angry eyes, so she took another step, holding the knife with her palm facing up, like she had seen her brother do when he practiced fighting in the yard, and awkwardly sort of tapped the point against the left side of his chest, leaning back as she did so as if bracing herself to be hit.  
  
          The Hound roared with laughter, and when he stopped his left hand grabbed her wrist, slowly, gently, so as not to frighten her, “Scared you’re going to hurt me, little bird?” he said, tone dripping of mockery, but at least this time she knew it was in just, not at her expense. When he felt her relax in his grasp and step in a bit, he said, “Here, girl,” a glint in his angry eyes. Without warning, he yanked her hand towards him, hard, making her instinctively cry out as he drove the blade against his chest, her other hand flying to her own stopped heart…  
  
          …but the knife had barely even pierced him. Only the very tip was hidden, wedged in the studded leather armor. She might as well have been stabbing a saddle with a sewing needle. Her knuckles were white around the hilt and she released her breath, giving the Hound a look as he stared smugly at her, “That…that was _not_ nice,” she said shakily, but the tension broke as soon as it had come as she broke down into laughter, knowing not where it came from. Her eyes were watery from the scare, and as she laughed away the tension she loosed her grip on the knife and let it fall to the floor.  
  
          Sandor realized he had not yet released her wrist, so reluctantly he did so, his rough fingertips lingering for just a moment, just as long as he dared before he pulled away entirely and picked up the blade. She didn’t seem to notice. Sansa had managed to calm herself, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, now looking at him rather seriously, “You didn’t have to do that…you scared me.”  
  
           “Nothing new, is it?” He grumbled, then corrected himself. “I didn’t mean to scare you, little bird,” he said honestly. He returned the blade to her, “Even if I wasn’t wearing armor, you’d still have to go through my chest to get to my heart. Ribs and muscle and bone, little blade like this might not even reach, depending on where it goes in…you’d do some damage, wouldn’t kill me. Go for the skin where it’s soft and exposed. Best is the stomach or the neck. Neck is more likely to be exposed, and more like to be deadly if you can get to it. Lots of veins in the neck.”  
  
          She nodded, and he took her wrist in his hand once more, pulling the blade from it and turning it, adjusting her grip, moving each finger around with surprising deftness and delicacy until they were positioned properly. He faced the knife so that the sharp edge was pointed at him, blade angled down. Her thumb was on the base of the grip, and he closed her fingers around the hilt. “You’ll want to hold it like this, girl.”  
  
           “But it…it looks like I’ll stab myself that way.”  
  
          He shook his head, “It’s a small blade, and you’re not stupid enough to do that. This way, you have more force, and you need as much force as you can get. Knife’s more secure, grip is stronger, and you’ve more control- you’re not like to slice open your hand from it slipping down the grip to the blade.” His hand was still over hers, he realized, and pulled away again. She looked down at her grip, turning her wrist a little as she got the feel for it, then looking up at him. The Hound cleared his throat, “So. That’s how you do it,” he rasped, with a nod, before he stood.  
  
           “I have to piss. Don’t cut yourself while I’m gone,” he rasped, leaving rather suddenly, Sansa thought, wrinkling her nose at his crassness. When the door closed, she walked up to the straw bed, knife in hand, still keeping the grip he’d shown her. She glanced around a bit before she swung the knife down. It went through the thin blanket, and wedged itself in the packed hay. She bit her lip and smiled, pleased with herself, then she quickly tugged the knife free and set it aside; that was _quite_ enough excitement for one day.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Hound finally has a bath, Sansa reminisces, and the two share a moment_

          Sansa couldn’t tell how long the Hound had been gone when he finally returned, but it was surely longer than he possibly could have needed to relieve himself. He didn’t look at her when he walked in, just gave a nod to acknowledge her presence. After a moment of silence she said, trying to work out the most delicate way of saying it, “…You…ought to take a bath.” _Septa would be ashamed._ He gave her his usual angry look, “I only meant…since there’s one _here_ , and we don’t know when we might come across another place to wash- and you’ve blood all over you.”  
  
          He sneered, “So eager to clean my face again, girl? Haven’t you seen enough of it?”  
  
          Her faced flushed a deep pink, “No- that’s not- I only _meant-_ “  
  
           “Calm down, little bird, it was only a joke.” She bit her lip, then immediately stopped the bad habit when she remembered her manners, hearing her septa scolding her for it.  
  
          The girl _was_ right, though. He needed a bath, badly. He’d just as soon not take one, but it wouldn’t be fair for the poor girl to have to put up with it. He just didn’t like the idea of being undressed when she was near, or perhaps he liked the idea too much, which was why it bothered him. _And if anyone came, I couldn’t protect her_. His armor posed a problem, too; with no squire to help remove the pieces, it would be a lengthy, frustrating process. But when he looked over at her, much as before, he could not refuse her.  
  
           “ _Fine_. But I’ll not be filling the tub on my own, so you’d best grab a bucket, too.”  
  
          She nodded, and went off while he stuck some pieces of wood in the stove. He would just as soon take a cold bath, but if the girl wanted one later at least the stone would already be warm for her. As soon as spark caught fire to the wood, he backed up, kicking the door closed with his foot as if the stove contained a poisonous snake. Then he grabbed the rusty metal pot in the kitchen and another bucket from outside on his way to the well.  
  
          By the time he walked up, Sansa had only just filled her bucket, and was walking carefully back with the bucket in both hands. Grumbling, the hound filled both his receptacles and began to fill the tub, setting the old pot over the stove and replacing it with another bucket so that at least the water would be relatively warm when they were done. It was a long process, but after a time the stone had heated, and so had the water. Sansa looked much more tired than she should, considering she only managed about 5 trips to the well and back, but he didn’t say anything- she was learning, and she was trying, and he couldn’t blame her for either.

          This was the hard part. “You ever take off a man’s armor?” he rasped, not very surprised when she shook her head, confused at the question.  
  
           “Why…?”  
  
           “I can’t take it off myself,” he said quickly, wanting to get it over with. _You’re acting like a blushing boy._ “Easier with someone, it’s all just untying knots anyway. Don’t give me that look, girl- I’m not asking you to undress me, it’s just metal. I’ve proper clothes underneath.” He gave her a look, and rather hesitantly she approached. He guided her through it, untying what he could, pointing to the parts that were more difficult, trying to keep his patience. He couldn’t tell whether the look of disgust was because of the bloody, dented armor or because she had to be so close to him, because something as simple as taking off armor made her uncomfortable.  
  
          He assumed it was the latter, and did his best to ignore how that made him feel...after all, it wasn’t anything he didn’t already know. When it came to his armored tunic, he helped her toss it aside so she didn’t drag it across the floor, she had struggled with nearly every piece of his heavy armor, though she did her best not to show it. While she struggled with his armor, Sandor struggled to keep himself grounded in reality. It was only armor she was taking off, but of course there was part of Sandor that desired it to be more. It was only fantasy, he knew, passing thoughts that came and went, imagination that ran wild when it was late at night and he was alone with his thoughts. He lusted foolishly, he knew, and so he did his best to confine his desires to his own head, lest they escape and become tainted by the bitter reality: she could never, would never reciprocate his feelings. When the last pieces of his chainmail had been removed, Sandor was left only in cloth trousers and a dirty tunic.  
  
          Once Sansa realized just how much armor was made up of, she imagined taking off layer after layer and finding that the Hound was just a small man with a burned face, covered in huge armor. A turtle without a shell. It was quite the opposite…somehow he looked even _bigger_ without his armor on, perhaps because there was not much left to the imagination, it was just him, more-or-less how he was. Sansa found herself staring and quickly looked away. The Hound was not oblivious to this fact.  
  
           “Don’t fret, little bird, I can manage from here,” he rasped sarcastically, “I won’t make you suffer through anymore. Go on. You can go to the next room, but stay in the house- anything happens, anyone comes, it’s best you’re not far.”  
  
          Sansa nodded and quickly left to the other room, not meeting his eye. As he did so often, he cursed himself, for his stupidity, for his desires, for his horrible scars that made even men cringe. He got undressed, and stepped into the tub. It was small, but it would do. As he washed, he thought of her. He knew she was only with him because she had to be, because he dragged her along with him. But she was naïve and gullible, and if she didn’t see Joffrey’s cruelty until he took her father’s head, she’d probably go off with any knight who had pretty armor and a charming smile, no matter who he was. It wasn’t long before the water was murky, clouded by the sweat and dirty he scrubbed away.  
  
           “S…um...“ Sansa had come to the room, her body turned away from him. She still didn’t know what to call him. “Would you like me to…take your clothes? To wash them?”  
  
          Despite the fact that her back was turned, her presence made him extremely uncomfortable. Her courtesies had started to rub off on him. _She doesn’t want to, it’s just more of her polite, empty offers._ Still, the clothes _were_ in bad need of washing.  
  
           “If… you want,” he rasped, dumbly.  
  
          She inched in sideways like a crab, keeping her face turned up and her back to him. He leaned over the edge of the tub, grabbing his tunic and trousers so she wouldn’t have to search for them. “Here. Y’don’t have to,” he stressed.  
  
          She bumped into his arm with her silly show of modesty, fumbling terribly as she grabbed them, her face red. He had the urge to grab her, but resisted, and she scurried off to the other room. He heard the scraping of the door as she went to fetch more water, and from the window he could see her as she walked to the well, her pretty red hair swaying with her steps.  
  
          When she walked back out of sight, he looked up at the clouds, tilting his head to the side thoughtfully and squinting, trying to work out how anyone could make out shapes in the wisps and fluff. _There is nothing, just clouds._ He could hear her scrubbing away in the next room…It was then he realized, cursing loudly, he had been left with nothing to cover himself with. He finished scrubbing up and splashed his face with water once more before stepping out of the tub and grabbing the blankets from the straw bed, wrapping them around himself rather crudely, trailing water everywhere and turning the floor to mud.  
  
           “Are you all right I heard-“  
  
           “Don’t come in!” he snarled, too forcefully.  
  
          She yelped, “Oh!” and as he turned to see where she was, he saw that she had only just turned around. He could have strangled her.  
  
           “I’m _so_ sorry- I thought-“ she was shaking her head quickly, and he rolled his eyes.  
  
           “It’s...fine, little bird. Just trying to spare you the sight,” he grumbled. At least she hadn’t _really_ seen anything, he was covered where it mattered by the time she had stepped in. A less kind part of him would have liked to see the look on her face had that not been the case. She inhaled like she was about to say something, but stopped herself.  
  
           “Did you get anywhere with the clothes?” He asked, intent on changing the subject.  
  
          She slumped a little, “A bit…”  
  
           “Bring them here, then, soak them in the hot water. I’ll do the rest.”  
  
          She brought back the sopping clothes, keeping her eyes glued to the ground. She hadn’t done a half-bad job on them, for a lady who’d never had to wash clothes. They looked much better than when she’d started. He took them and jerked his head for her to leave, but realizing she couldn’t see said, “I’ll be out in a minute,” very pointedly. She went. He dunked the clothes in the hot water and twisted them out.

 

          Sansa’s tummy was full of butterflies and her cheeks felt like they were on fire. She hadn’t _meant_ to walk in on him like that, but she’d heard him curse and heard a splash and just wanted to make sure he was _okay_ …she didn’t expect him to just be standing there, almost entirely uncovered. _Almost naked…Well what did you expect, when he’d been bathing? You’re acting like a stupid little girl._ She felt like a child, reminded of when she and some distant cousins from Riverrun had spent hours whispering and giggling about boys…

          The eldest of the group had been a girl of 13, Kaera, two years older than Sansa at the time, who had taken the group of four out exploring at Winterfell. Arya had tried to come along but she was so small at the time that they quickly lost her, not unintentionally. Kaera had taken them to one of the bath houses and showed them where there was a crack in the wall, and all the girls had lined up to take a look, giggling all the while. Sansa had been scared to look, scared to get caught, but did it anyway. All of them left wide eyed. After that, none of them could look their fathers in the eye for weeks.  
  
          The Hound was different, though. Many of the boys in the bath house had been no more than eighteen, and the three people older than that were white-haired and wrinkled. Possibly most shocking to her was seeing how _intact_ he looked…in her imagination, she saw the burns going down his neck and covering nearly every inch of his body except his hands and that one side of his face. It made no logical sense, she knew, but when left to her imagination that is what she had seen. Instead, the Hound was just a man. A _large_ man, massive and muscled, and… _hairy_. Dark, flat hair on top of _hundreds_  of scars. But there were scars on every man who fought, she knew.  
  
          When she was four, Sansa had walked in on her father shirtless, and screamed at the sight of his scars. Eddard Stark, baffled and confused, had done his best to comfort her- he tried to go to her and hug her but she only screamed louder until her mother and septa had come running. “Daddy’s _dying!_ ” she had cried, and it was all her parents could do not to burst into laughter. When the excitement was over, her septa explained to her what scars were. _Every man has scars. Some you can see, and some you cannot. Many times it’s the strongest of men who have the most scars, because they are survivors. Your lord father fought in two wars, not many men can say that…And he loves you very much. So go be a good, sweet girl and apologize for screaming, and you give him a big kiss and tell him you love him_. So Sansa had gone, misty eyed and ashamed, back to her father, who only smiled in the most understanding way of anyone she had known, took her in his arms, and spun her around until she was red in the face with laughter, and her mistakes forgotten. Then she rode on her father’s shoulders all the way back up to her room. Neither her father or her mother brought up the incident again, but Robb and Jon had teased her about it for weeks…  
  
          Sansa sighed, shaking her head, wringing her hands. The Hound stepped into the room, wearing his damp clothes, his boots, and his usual angry look. Without saying a word to her, he dragged the door open and went to stand outside in the sun, looking like a giant wet scarecrow. She followed him outside, and he turned to look back at her, “Did I scare you that much, girl?” he said bitterly, giving her a look.  
  
          Confused, she shook her head, “No…I, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to rush in like that.”  
  
           “Save your apologies.” He looked her up and down, then turned away again, putting his hands on his hips. “Well, I knew I wasn’t the prettiest, but I didn’t think the sight of me would send you to tears.”  
  
          She put a hand to her face, and it came away wet. “Oh.” Then with a suddenly sinking heart she realized. “Oh, _no!_ No, I didn’t- I didn’t realize- It wasn’t _you_!” _Gods, Sansa, why are you always so stupid?_ “Please, it was just…I was only thinking of home, in Winterfell…I just miss it, that’s all. It wasn’t you. I didn’t mean to offend you.”  
  
          He laughed, “Only a joke, little bird. Don’t worry yourself, I’ve heard worse things.” He would never admit to her the truth of it, that he had been bothered by her tears and assumed it was somehow because of him despite logic indicating otherwise. Even so, he _did_ feel…better. They stood together in silence for a little bit, then Sansa as usual broke the quiet.  
  
           “May I ask you a question?” she asked awkwardly.  
  
          The Hound rolled his eyes, “If you want to ask, then ask. Spare me your manners and wee glances, I don’t have the patience for it.”  
  
          She fidgeted uncomfortably, convincing herself to ask, “Do you remember how you got them? All your scars?”  
  
          He shrugged and shook his head, “Just this one,” he said, and she knew what he meant. “The rest are just cuts. Nothing important.”  
  
           “But…didn’t they _hurt_? How could you forget?”  
  
          She was _so_ young, he thought. It wasn’t her age, it was her understanding of the world, though she was growing up fast. She was learning. “Aye, they hurt. But none worse than feeling your own flesh being cooked in the flames, and by your own brother’s hand. After that, things still hurt, but the pain no longer means anything.” He glanced at her for a moment. _The two of us are a sorry sight_ , he thought. He was a gargoyle, keeping watch, while she was the sad stone angel, weeping for those she’d lost.  
  
          Sansa understood what he meant. The day at the King’s tourney had been the first day she saw a knight get killed, and so brutally, with Ser Gregor’s lance splintering off in his throat…she couldn’t even remember the fallen knight’s name, now…it had been the first day she realized the implications of all of Old Nan’s stories of wars and battles. Then Joffrey had killed her father, and made her look at her house’s tarred heads, and beat her… and after a while it still hurt, but she didn’t scream as much. And soon she found herself alone in the world, and even when she cried she felt numb. _Perhaps some people are born numb,_ she thought. _Perhaps Joffrey was born numb. And Ser Gregor, too._  
  
          Sansa wished she had been born numb.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _An attack_

          It was soon time to say goodbye to the old abandoned farm and return to the road and continue on their journey north. It had only been a couple weeks at most, but it felt like months to Sansa. She’d spent more time alone with the Hound than she probably ever had in all her time at King’s Landing, more time alone with him than she had with probably any other man who was not her family. When their journey began, she felt like in many ways she barely knew him, and now in these few weeks she had gotten to know and understand him better than she had in three years.  
  
          “Where are we going?”  
  
          The Hound shrugged, “North.”  
  
          “Yes, but _where_? You _must_ know.”  
  
          He shrugged again, “Thought maybe the Vale. You’ve got that aunt there. She’d be glad to have you.”  
  
          She swayed back and forth with the horse’s steady gate, thinking it over, wondering why she wasn’t more excited, “Oh.”  
  
          “That good enough for you? Or am I going to hear about it from here to the Bloody Gate?”  
  
          Sansa shook her head, “No. That’s fine…I was only curious.” She couldn’t understand why she felt disappointed. Her aunt Lysa was family, and surely she would be happy there. She would be treated like a proper lady, with good food to eat and real beds to sleep on, but she hadn’t seen her aunt in years. She felt the need to say something, but couldn’t figure out what it was she wanted to say. _He would be angry with you for speaking anyway_ she told herself.  
  
          When they reached the top of a grassy crest they had been climbing and The Trident came into view, Sansa gasped with glee, “Oh, it’s _beautiful_ ,” she breathed, and it was. Grudgingly, Sandor allowed her to get down off the horse and walk a bit on her own to admire the view, and when he gestured for her to come back, she did so smiling.

 

          That night, they made camp in a small forest just north of The Trident. They gathered dry wood for a fire, and the Hound lit it before going off to hunt. “I’ll be back. Anyone comes, you scream.”

          Sansa nodded. She had no desire to go hunting, much preferring to stay by the warm fire, whereas the Hound preferred to be as far from it as possible, at least until the flames had died down some, and she didn’t blame him for that. She pulled her cloak off of her head and went looking for wildflowers, being sure to keep the fire in sight, and the little knife at her belt like the Hound had taught her. She’d seen pretty blue ones, and the white kind that looked like little bells dangling off of a green stem. It was a silly hobby, but she hated sitting idly. Anyway, she never walked more than ten feet from the fire.  
  
          She didn’t hear the men coming from behind and didn’t see them until she felt a dirty hand clamp down over her mouth and pull her off her feet. She screamed, but she might as well have whispered, for no air got past the sweaty palm pressed against her lips. She was being dragged from the camp. She was back at King’s Landing, being pulled from her horse while Joffrey rode away. She kicked and kicked, there were two…three…four men- no, three- She couldn’t tell, everything blurry _The knife- Get the knife!_ She bit down hard on the hand covering her mouth, tasting metal, and with a curse the man withdrew his hand. She screamed.  
  
           “You stupid little bitch!” He smacked her across the face with a wet hand and grabbed the bottom of her cloak while a thick, smelly man pushed her into the ground by her chest. It had been over a month since she’d been struck like that, and it floored her. He stuffed the fabric into her mouth, making her gag. _The knife, you idiot! Get the knife!_ She searched for it, her hands were shaking, they were shaking too much, but she finally managed to get a firm grip. Another man had lay a leg on her, kneeling on her chest. She could smell him, a sharp, putrid smell that filled her nose and left a sickening taste in her mouth, making her dry heave into the dirty cloak between her teeth. They tore at her dress, grabbing her kicking legs.  
  
           “Stop struggling and we’ll be gentle- Otherwise Kreach here’ll be glad to slit your throat,” one of the men hissed with acrid breath.  
  
          _Stab them, take out the knife!_ She was screaming at herself, she pulled the knife out but she _couldn’t_ , her muscles weren’t working, frozen, she _wanted to_ but she _couldn’t‑_ and they were all laughing, the knife was snatched from her and tossed aside. She was struggling to breath with the hem of the cloak shoved in her mouth, and the man’s hand clamping tight. _Please, please help me, please_. She felt a hand grab her thigh, under her skirts, sticky and sandy. He had his cock out, fat and small. One of them yanked her skirts up over her eyes.  
  
          She kicked, and the man screamed- he released her, and suddenly they all had released her. _Did I kick him so hard?_ She couldn’t see. She was sprayed with water- no, it was too thick to be water. _Blood_. The Hound grunted, Sansa heard the smack of steel piercing leather, and another body hit the floor. She scrambled to pull the cloak out of her mouth choking, but she still couldn’t breathe, she turned over on her stomach.  
  
           “Mercy, m’lord, mercy! We wasn’t gonna do nuffin- mer-“ The man’s neck snapped, and there was a thud, a sword being sheathed, and then silence.  
  
          Sansa was gasping for air, coughing and spluttering, “Help…” she sobbed, she couldn’t see, she couldn’t breathe. She still felt hands on her, still felt them grabbing her.  
  
           “Did they-“ he couldn’t say it. “Did they cut you?” he opted for. He was suddenly beside her, his hand on her arm, he turned her over and tilted her chin up, but she shook her head, gasping and blinking away tears, and then she could breathe again, it was easier, “Can you walk?” His voice was shaking with anger, strained from the effort of trying to keep an even tone.  
  
          She threw herself at him, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry- I- I _tried_ \- I tried to- I’m _so_ sorry-“  
  
          His first instinct was to shove her away, he released his hands from her and was about to push her back before he stopped himself…They were in a forest. They were not in King’s Landing, and they were surrounded by dead men. Somewhat haltingly, he gathered her up in his arms and stood, carrying her back the short distance to the fire- they hadn’t dragged her far- where Stranger was patiently waiting as if nothing had happened.  
  
           “Don’t be sorry, little bird, it’s not your fault,” he muttered, his blood still boiling. She had wrapped her arms around his neck, her face pressing into him as she took halting, shallow breaths. “All right, little bird. All right.”  
  
          He sat down carefully, his back against a tree for some support and balance. His hands went to his sides rather awkwardly, expecting her to get up but she never did, she just held tight like her life depended on it. Somewhat tentatively, he reached his arms around her and twisted off his gauntlets, letting them drop before he gently wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in, chin resting lightly atop her head while she cried and began to calm herself.  
  
          He had managed to catch a rabbit when he’d heard the cry…and he was ashamed for thinking now that he should go get it so they could eat. _Now is not the time, you idiot_. She was in shock, and he couldn’t blame her for it, so he waited patiently for her breath to steady, for her shaking to slowly melt away in his arms. One of her hands was pressed against the nape of his neck, fingers clenched around his matted dark hair. He wanted to do the same to her, but didn’t want to frighten her off. _Anything I do will probably frighten her,_ he thought. _The better life is to her, the more she resents me…only when something bad happens does she come to me_ he reminded himself. He wanted to take her away and lock her up in a cage, where she would be safe and nobody would ever be able to hurt her. _I could be good to her_. _Better than the imp, at least._ He annoyed himself for the reminder that she was married…not that it really made _that_ much of a difference, but he still didn’t like the thought of it. It had been hard enough to watch the ceremony, her in that huge, ridiculous gown, looking like a peacock…a _beautiful_ peacock, but still.  
  
          Finally, her breathing seemed to even out, and she wasn’t clinging quite so desperately. He tilted his head to the side to look down at her. Her eyes were closed. “Are you awake, girl?” She nodded.  
  
          It was late, and the shadows were dancing around her face and all along the trees. He was eyeing the dead rabbit, but food could wait until morning. He’d learned her moods by this point, and knew no matter how hungry she was, she wouldn’t eat now. _Be good to her._ Sighing, he gently pulled her arms from around him.  
  
           “I’m not going anywhere.” He assured her quickly, sliding her off of him and standing. He walked up to stranger and pulled a cloak from the saddle bag, one of the few things at the old farm worth taking, it was good and thick, but not too heavy. When he turned, she was where he’d left her, sitting with her legs folded to one side, leaning her weight on her arm, her cloak pulled tightly around her. He spread the cloak out in front of her, “My lady,” he rasped, an obvious joke, as he gestured for her, hoping it might do _something_ to lift her spirits, a distraction.  
  
           She looked up at him unsmiling, but she saw it in her eyes, just for a fleeting moment, and that was enough for him. She crawled onto the cloak and lay on her side, facing the dying flames. He joined her on the other side, not quite as far away as he usually stayed. She turned to look at him and he leaned on one elbow facing towards her, tilting her chin up with the side of his hand,  
  
           “You all right, little bird?”  
  
          She nodded wordlessly, and her hand was on his cheek, and she pressed her cheek to his, to his bad side. For a brief moment, he panicked, thinking she meant to kiss him- his hand had somehow ended up at her waist and it just seemed like that was what she was going to do, so he started to pull back but she just closed her eyes stayed with the side of her face pressed gently against his burned side and whispered, “Thank you.”  
  
          He nodded stiffly, and she pulled away and rolled back over, his hand slipping from around her perfect waist. He sank down onto his back, his heart pounding loudly in his ears, he felt like he’d just run a mile. Part of him wanted to grab her back, but he had more self-control than that, so he forced himself to stay put and did his best to fall asleep quickly.


	14. Chapter 14

           Sandor Clegane was having sweet dreams, dreams of fires lit with passion, not flame. He could smell her, feel her soft auburn hair on his cheek. _Strawberries and cream_ …  
  
          Sansa dreamed of Kings Landing, of the men that grabbed her from every end and held her down. She was clutching her knife but her muscles were paralyzed. One of them grabbed her around the middle, laughing a gurgling, toothless laugh, _you ever been fucked, little girl?_ She gasped awake as the man’s arm wrapped around her, heart pounding as her eyes opened up into darkness.  
  
          There _was_ an arm around her. But it was not the arm of an attacker, she realized with relief as her senses sharpened, it was the arm of the man who saved her, the arm that carried her over his shoulder back to the Keep. When had he turned over? She tilted her head back to look at him, but with a grunt and a snore from him it was clear that he was not awake. No one had ever held her, not like this. It wasn’t _proper_ , but it was oddly comforting. She relaxed, settling back against him, the weight of his arm draped over her waist with the lazy tenderness of a sleeping dog.  
  
          _The Hound is my Florian_ , she realized then, as the cool night breeze rustled the leaves like whispers, repeating her thoughts. The songs were just stories, she knew now, beautiful lies to fool stupid little girls into trusting kings who promised mercy, fools who promised freedom, and knights who gave pretty red roses and empty gestures. The Hound in his dull dented armor was none of these, not gallant, not beautiful, not exactly nice…but he was good, and true, and he saved her so many times, and for this he was a better knight than any she had known in King’s Landing who wore a pretty cloak and pretty smile to boot... more than that, he was her friend, though their friendship was unlike any other she had experienced before. It made her wonder if there was some other word besides ‘friendship’ that might provide a more accurate representation of how she felt about him. Whatever it was, she felt, or hoped, that he reciprocated the feeling.  
  
          Sansa heard Stranger drag his hooves in the dirt as she began to drift back to sleep, this time welcomed by slightly sweeter dreams.

 

           _Strawberries and cream…_ Sandor grunted, eyes shut tight as his dreams escaped him, chased away by the rising sun. He wanted desperately to return to them, but now he was awake, and only wine could ease that familiar pain of day. He forced his eyes open to the morning light, and his heart skipped- he had turned over in his sleep and his arm was around her- Did she know? Part of him wanted only to pull her in tighter, to bury his face in her auburn hair, but this was no dream. He could taste the bitterness of reality in his mouth. _Stupid dog_ he cursed, releasing her and sliding his arm away, _slowly, careful, don’t wake her_.

          He stood and grabbed the dead rabbit off the ground, inspecting it. _Should still be good_ , he thought, drawing his blade. He walked off to grab a handful of twigs, stirring around the ashes from the night’s fire. Fire was a hard enemy to kill. He’d seen people dump water on ashes three days old, then toss the ashes away outside only to find the yard ablaze an hour later. This was no different. Soon, the twigs caught, greedily consumed by the hungry flames. He got to work skinning the rabbit, a task that only took a few minutes but was a welcome distraction for his thoughts. The skins were tossed aside and the rabbit skewered, held over the flames while he kept a comfortable distance. He glanced down at Sansa, who was still fast asleep, her mouth hanging slightly open. _Those lips_. Finally, _finally_ she was beginning to drop her act, to open up and be herself. But now that he felt he really _knew_ her, he found himself just as vexed as before, knowing that she wasn’t truly his and would never be.  
  
          When she did wake, she turned over to where he had been sleeping, blinking as she realized the spot empty, but her eyes quickly found him. She exhaled softly and smiled. He gave her a nod, then she rubbed her eyes and sat up, and he watched her posture change as reality set it. Her clothes were _covered_ in the blood of other men. She was sore, and bruised, and her dress was torn. _She smiled, first, though. When she saw me, she smiled._ She had _never_ looked at him that way before, the way she looked at him in that brief moment, and he found himself staring at the spot where she had been, replaying it in his head.  
  
          When the rabbit was finished cooking, they both ate in silence. When they were done, the Hound returned to the dead men, searched their bodies for what little coin they had on them, and retrieved the small knife. After stomping out the fire, they packed and continued on their way.

 

          They passed the Inn at the Crossroads, and Sansa asked about staying, but he shook his head. “That’s a Lannister inn, now. Not safe.” So they rode on, north-east. It was when they were nearing the Bloody Gate that they ran across soldiers of the Vale carrying black banners followed by a group of silent brothers pulling a small cart full of crates. “Who’s that for,” he rasped, as their paths crossed.

           “Heading to the Eyrie, funeral ceremony,” came the reply. This couldn’t be good news. He gave Sansa’s arm a quick squeeze, hoping she wouldn’t react badly to the answer to his next question. Even in The Vale where presumably Sansa had friends, it would not be to their benefit if her presence was known before it had to be.  
  
           “Who died?”  
  
          One of the soldiers looked appalled, it was the younger of the two that answered, “Lady Lysa Arryn- er, Baelish, now, I s’pose. Fever took her- same one what took her late husband, from the sound of it. One day she were fine, the next,” the soldier clapped his hands, then showed his open palms, “Gone. Lord Baelish took the news badly- he was right upset. An’ no wonder, wife dyin’ so soon after the wedding. That’s a bad omen, that is. The little lord was in a bad way, too, you know, with them fits of his.”  
  
          The soldier talked too much, but in this case it was to their benefit. Sansa remained completely still, drawing no attention to herself, just bending her head a little to make certain her face wasn’t seen under the cloak. Without another word or second thought, the Hound turned Stranger right around and headed back the way they came. “Change of plans, little bird,” he rasped, and she nodded.  
  
          Picking up the pace, they tried to make up their lost time as they headed westward, then north, the Hound not entirely sure where he would go next. _Damned Starks keep bloody dying_ , he thought, then immediately felt guilty for it considering his present company was, as far as he knew, the only Stark left, and the only Tully that mattered, too, now, with her uncle hostage. He expected to hear weeping any moment, but it never came. Then he worried that she was in one of her moods, so he gave her a gentle nudge, “You all right, little bird?”  
  
          She nodded and then, to his surprise, shrugged, “I barely knew my aunt Lysa. I know _you_ better than I know her.”  
  
          It was such a simple thing to say, and he didn’t understand where the urge came from, why what she had said meant so much to him when she clearly meant nothing by it, but Sandor Clegane could have turned her around and kissed her just for that. He didn’t, though. He knew better, so he just smiled a bit to himself and tried to work out the safest place to go next.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sansa confronts Sandor again_

          It was once again, days later, that they found themselves camped out in the trees, Sandor still steadfastly refusing to patronize any inns, and Sansa begging him to reconsider. She had gotten used to the camps, but she didn’t _enjoy_  them, especially not when they _could_ be served good meals that were cooked for them and sleep on real beds. She still had not acquired a new dress, and the fact that this one was torn only served as a reminder of the dangers of camping out, but the Hound returned that argument by saying the same could happen at any inn. She knew she was freer than she had been in years, yet she was feeling more and more trapped, unable to make decisions or have say in where they were going. But she was a Stark and she was strong, and she would act like a lady as much as possible even though they were living like criminals.  
  
          After her attack, she had come along with the Hound the next time the he went hunting, but she proved to be a _terrible_ companion for such activities. She didn’t understand how to move without making noise. Every twig that snapped underfoot was a meal lost, as was every reflexive “Oh!” she would sigh when a cute critter would come into sight. After the third day hunting with nothing to show for it, Sandor insisted that she stay with Stranger, “Stay on him, if you like, all you’ll have to do is ride off if trouble comes... But you’re damn sure not coming with me again.” She didn’t try to argue, she just nodded and sat quietly, wishing she had a needle and thread to busy herself with. _At least then I could fix my dress_. Instead, she sighed and started to gather dry wood for a fire, expecting his return with food. As usual, her thoughts began to stray. She didn’t know what made her think of it, but all of a sudden she found herself remembering the night at Blackwater. _Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life…_ She thought of the kiss that never was, and felt a soft fluttering pressure within her tummy, the kind that made her skin tingle with a warmth that was unfamiliar to her. _I wanted to kiss you, and more on top of that, but I never did…_

 

          He indeed returned victorious, two rabbits in hand- it seemed there were _always_ rabbits to be found. He was also pleasantly surprised when he found a fire had already been made. She was getting much better at making fires- the first one she’d made would have been great had her goal been to create as much smoke as possible. He nodded in approval after poking at the tinder with a long stick. He found a spot to sit and got to work skinning the rabbits while Sansa turned to look the other way, still not having the stomach to watch.  
  
          He heard her move more than once, turning to him and turning away, and he felt her eyes on him, “Whatever it is you want to say, just say it, little bird. You make me bloody nervous when you keep looking all over the place.”  
  
          She stopped, turning away from him as she had before and sitting still. Her hand went to one of the ripped seams of her dress, thumb grazing over the open stitches idly. He heard her turn then, out of the blue, “Why _didn’t_ you kiss me?”  
  
          He nearly tore the rabbit he was skinning in half, “ _What?_ ”  
  
           “At…after the battle. You _said_ you never kissed me-“  
  
           “- I didn’t.”  
  
           “-but then why _didn’t_ you?”  
  
           “Seven _Hells_ , girl! Can’t you leave it be?”  
  
           “I just…I just want to know _why_.”  
  
           “It doesn’t bloody _matter_ why. It’s over.”  
  
           “But it matters to _me_.”  
  
          He screwed up his face and hunched over the rabbit, continuing his work. “Don’t ask stupid questions, girl,” he grumbled coarsely.  
  
          That one hurt, “It isn’t _stupid_ , and I’m not a _child_. If you didn’t kiss me-“  
  
           “-I _didn’t_.”  
  
           “-Then the very least you could do is explain _why_ you came to my room in the night and held a knife to my throat! I was scared to death, you know- I thought you would kill me.”  
  
          He knew he would have to give in, or listen to her continue pressing until he lost it, and scared her away. Her claim of fear bothered him, too. He never would have hurt her, he wouldn’t have put a hand on her if he hadn’t been so drunk and desperate. He finished skinning the rabbits, and stuck them angrily on a long stick. “I don’t know, girl. I was drunk.”  
  
           “Being drunk is never a reason for _not_ kissing someone, even I know that.”  
  
           “We’ve talked about this before.”  
  
          She folded her arms, “ _Why_ can’t you just tell me? _A Hound never lies_ , remember?”  
  
           “I’m not _lying,_ ” he spat, annoyed by the accusation. She stood up, looking at him hard. He refused to turn and look at her. “I don’t _know_ ,” he growled.  
  
           “You _must_ know. Stop being _childish_.”  
  
           “Seven Hells, Sansa, what do you want me to say? I _don’t_ bloody know. I was drunk, and wanted to get as far away from that godforsaken shithole as possible. I wanted to take you with me, but you were too…” he clenched his jaw, “…You wouldn’t come. I didn’t mean to scare you. And I didn’t fucking kiss you. I wanted to, and I didn’t, and I don’t bloody know why. I _should_ have. Then maybe you’d bloody shut up about it, and I wouldn’t have to be bothered with it every other week. There’s not always a reason for everything, little bird. It’s not a fucking song- I wasn’t a knight in shining armor who came to your room to rescue you and give you a bloody kiss and a rose and ride off into the bloody sunset. I was _drunk_ , and angry, and you _should_ have been scared. I _could_ have done lots of bloody things to you that night, so you should damn well be thanking me for _not fucking doing them_ instead of asking me _why_ I didn’t do them. Be glad you’re not bloody asking me why I _did_ …You didn’t ask your sweet king why he beat you, so why when I do something _good_ do you have to act so buggering shocked? Is it that bloody hard for you to believe? That I could be _good_?” He was only getting angrier, and by the end of it he was standing as well, feet from her and fuming. By the end of it, she looked like she’d been slapped across the face, and he knew he’d gone too far but he was too angry to be upset by it. He thought about that night often enough on his own, he didn’t need to hear it from her, too. He was ashamed of it, and frustrated by it. Wiping his hands of the conversation he sat, and shoved the rabbits over the flame again, desperately wanting to kill or beat something to a pulp. She clenched her fists, making her face like stone, and turned on her heel to storm off.  “Don’t go far,” he rasped.  
  
            She didn’t answer, but upset as she was, she was not so stupid as to take her chances wandering off alone especially after what happened last time. She was more annoyed at herself for having started the conversation, anyway. Although he hadn’t given her an answer that made her happy, she’d gotten the answer she deserved. _He could have been kinder about it…_ but then she heard his bitter voice telling her, “ _there are no true knights, no more than there are gods”…What did you expect?_  
  
           It had been so long since she’d prayed, she wondered if the gods would even hear her if she wasn’t in a sept or godswood, not that they’d ever listened to her before. Defeated and desperate, she prayed to the Crone for wisdom and guidance, to the Warrior for courage, to the Smith for strength, and finally prayed to the Mother, to show him mercy, and compassion, and gentleness… Then she prayed to the Old Gods, but it felt odd without a Heart Tree. When she was done, she sat on the hard ground and pretended it was a goose-feather pillow.

 

          When he came for her, darkness had fallen and it was growing cold. “Here,” he rasped, coming up from behind and thrusting the skewered rabbit in front of her. The other rabbit was gone, he had eaten without her.

  
          She looked up at him, but could not see his face in the darkness, just his looming silhouette. With dainty fingers she took the rabbit so has not to get her hands greasy, and he twisted the skewer free. Sansa ate delicately, tearing off little pieces of meat in her fingers and popping them in her mouth, trying not to think of the animal living. She found it much more difficult to eat the animals after seeing them trapped and skinned in front of her, served whole, but she was hungry, and food no longer came in many courses and silver platters. “Thank you,” she said.  
  
          He tossed the charred stick aside, “Come back to the camp. It’s late.”  
  
          She knew he was asking her, even though he hadn’t made it a question. _Perhaps if you ask me properly, I will come_ , she wanted to say, holding her head up high until he called her Lady Sansa and truly _asked_ her. But this was not his nature, she knew. He had brought her the rabbit, and meant it as a gift, a peace offering. _You know what he meant, so why should it matter how he says it?_ She couldn’t think of a good enough answer, so she stood, picking at the rabbit as they returned to the dying embers.  
  
          He’d already laid a cloak out for her. She turned and smiled at him, a true smile. He just gave a sullen nod and went to lie down with his back to the flames. She finished eating in silence, listening to the Hound’s breathing and staring at the cloak on the ground feeling giddy, his previous harsh words long forgotten.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sansa starts to tell a story_

           “Where are we going now?” she finally asked, as they were nearing the end of a long day of riding. It wasn’t the first time she had asked, but every time she did she was met with the same answer: _I don’t know yet, just north_.  
  
          He sighed, “Where do you _want_ to go?”  
  
          The answer surprised her, and she had to think a moment before she could answer. She would have liked to see Winterfell…but last she heard, Winterfell had burned, and she didn’t think she could stand to go back and see its lifeless shell and face all the memories alone, not now.  
  
           “My…brother Jon is at The Wall…perhaps, if we could make it that far…?”  
  
          She sounded hopeful and he regretted asking her. It was getting colder by the day, and neither of them had clothes fit for The Wall, of all things. And what would he do there? Better yet, what would _she_ do there, surrounded by hundreds of men who likely hadn't even seen a woman in ages? And what would her bastard brother be good for? No doubt she thought The Wall was some beautiful place full of noble servants of The Realm, protecting Westeros from the grumpkins and shadowcats…not a cold, loveless place filled with all manner of criminals who’d been given the impossible choice between death and the Black. But he didn’t know how to tell her all that, knowing that if he tried it would only start another argument, so he just said, “Could be,” and decided not to talk about it again. Then, wanting something to distract her, he said the first thing that came to his mind. “Tell me one of your stories.”  
  
           “What do you mean?”  
  
           “The ones you always go on about. With the…knights, and dragons…and things.”  
  
          She looked back at him with raised eyebrows, “Truly?”

          The Hound rolled his eyes, “Just tell me the damned story, girl, don’t make me sorry I asked,” he grumbled.  
  
          She pressed her lips together thoughtfully, trying to recall all the stories Old Nan and Septa Mordane used to tell, all the stories she had loved so much that she hadn’t heard in so long. “Well…what sort of stories do you like?”  
  
           “I don’t know. Just pick one.”  
  
          It was easier to think when he didn’t have a knife pressed to her throat, but she couldn’t decide on which story to tell. Whenever she thought of one that she used to like, it just seemed stupid and silly, tainted with the knowledge that it wasn’t true. Finally, she made herself settle for one about a maiden who had been locked away in a tower at the ends of the earth, guarded by a fearsome dragon, and of the brave man who had gone to save her. “…He was just a boy, of no noble birth, but he had seen the lords sparring at the castle and dreamed of being a knight… When the maiden Lysandra was taken, many brave knights stepped up to rescue her, but none returned, and so one day there were no more knights to volunteer...Soon the boy had grown into a young man, and one day he volunteered to go save Lysandra…” As she went on, she began to feel like a young girl again, remembering the joy and the hope the stories had brought her, back before she hadn't known any better, back when the world ended at the walls of Winterfell, and continued on only in her imagination. Soon the story was tumbling out of her, and she was painting pictures in the air with her hands as she spoke.  
  
          The Hound listened patiently, trying not to balk, not even when the young man of the story climbed the tower stone by stone, unburnt by the dragon that guarded it (which he had impossibly defeated with a single blow to the heart). She was a good storyteller at least, even if the story itself was inane. Sansa was entirely absorbed in the tale, and when the young man in the story came into the girl’s keep and she immediately ran into his arms, he’d heard about all he could stand.  
  
           “All right. That’s enough,” he grumbled. She looked back at him, brought back to reality, “You can finish it later.” He added, not wanting her to protest. He’d thought hearing one of her stories might make him feel better, but it hadn’t; it just made him feel bitter all over again, though he couldn’t understand why he expected any different.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The kiss that was_

           That night, they found a small inn not far from The Twins, with a faded painted wood sign hanging out front that read “Inn Above The Fork.” There were two horses out front, but not much noise coming from inside, a good sign that it would not be too crowded. As usual, Sansa begged him to stop, and he reluctantly agreed this time after ensuring that she was well covered underneath her cloak. Anyway, the inn might have wine and it had been over a week since his last drink, and today he had a particular thirst. They stepped inside the weathered inn, Sandor having to duck his head to avoid hitting the top of the doorway with his forehead. It was modest and simple, with torchlit stone walls and a tavern full of long wooden benches and tables. The innkeeper was a short, stout woman with a face like she had eaten a lemon.  
  
           “Got any rooms?” he rasped.  
  
          She gave him an unabashed look up and down, leaning to the side to get a look at Sansa, but he stepped into her sightline, making her twitch her nose, rather peeved, “’Ow many you need?”  
  
           “One.”  
  
           “Oooh, I see,” she said, giving an understanding nod, “One bed? Or two? Two’ll cost you extra,” she added quickly.  
  
           “Just one.”  
  
           “All right, then. I’ll show you up to the room, but I’ll be needing payment upfront when you’re ready. Seems when the cities are at war, people feel they don’t need to pay.”  
  
          The Hound nodded, and went into the tavern with Sansa following close behind. They sat at the table farthest from the entrance in the corner, with Sansa facing the wall and Sandor facing out where he could see everyone and be surprised by nothing. The tavern was relatively quiet- there was a group of men gambling and drinking, another man with a female companion sitting on his lap and feeding him with her fingers while his hand disappeared under her skirts. A young woman who could only be the plump daughter of the innkeeper sauntered up, dark hair tied up in curls, the same unfortunate expression as her mother plastered on her face.  
  
           “What’ll it be, then, loves?” She asked, lazily twirling a finger through one of her curls. “We got wine and ale and might be some cider left, just got a shippin’ of butter, an’ there’s fresh bread now that the trade’s pickin’ up…there’s cheese but t’be honest I wouldn’t touch the stuff, smelled right foul, an’ we got a stew, umm…rabbit stew, wif’ pota’oes, carrots, the like…”  
  
           “The wine and stew. Lots of wine. And the bread.”  
  
           “You got it, love,” she said with an uncouth wink, “I’ll be right out wi’that.”  
  
          The wine came first, to the Hound’s delight, in a large flagon and two bone cups. He pushed one to Sansa after taking a long drink from his own, “It’s not your fancy sweet wines so if you don’t want it I’ll take it.”  
  
          She took the cup in her hands and took a sip of the sour red, he could see her wince under the cloak, but she drank some more just the same. The bread came out cold and the stews thick and warm, and it was the best meal they’d had since starting their journey. Even Sansa finished it quickly, though she managed without the ferocity with which the Hound attacked his meal.  
  
           “Ooh, hungry man, no wonder you’re so big,” the serving girl teased, “Want more?”  
  
          The Hound shook his head, unamused. “More wine, that’s it,” and she obliged.  
  
          For the cup of wine Sansa had, the Hound had nearly two flagons, pouring the remaining wine in his stolen wineskin, filling it for later. He set the coins on the table, wiped a forearm across his mouth, and grunted for Sansa to follow him. He paid the innkeeper for the room, and she showed them up, Sandor leaning heavily against the wall. Sansa paused before stepping inside.  
  
           “Do you…would you have any thread? And a needle?” Sansa asked the woman, and the Hound glared at her. She didn’t look at him.  
  
           “Might could dig up some, if you pay for it,” the woman nodded.  
  
           “Of course.”  
  
          The woman turned and went down, “Be up in a minute, dearie,” she called, waving her hand behind her. The Hound stumbled into the room while Sansa waited for the woman to return.  
  
          When she returned, she provided Sansa with a slightly bent needle and some thread and Sansa gave her a copper, while the Hound said “About bloody time,” from behind the wall, a bit too loud.  
  
          The innkeeper raised a brow disapprovingly, “You need anything else you just ask, love.” Sansa thanked her with an apologetic look and joined the Hound inside.  
  
          When she entered, Sandor closed the door, backing into it and sinking to the floor, wineskin in hand and legs splayed out in front of him, staring into the embers of the hearth that had been prepared for them. Sansa sat at the edge of the bed, needle and thread beside her. She took off her cloak, and began to examine her dress, running her fingertips over the damage. She was always better at embroidery, but it shouldn’t be too difficult to repair, with some time. The wine had made her tired; she wasn’t used to drinking, especially not wine so strong, but she forced herself to stay awake for the sake of having a whole dress to wear in the morning. She stood to unlace her dress, but quickly remembered herself before she started, looking over at the Hound.  
  
           “Would you turn away, please?” she asked, softly.  
  
          He laughed bitterly, “You trying to torture me, girl?”  
  
           “I…No, It’s just, I can’t sew the dress while it’s on me.” His mouth twisted, but he obliged and turned away. Then she pulled her cloak around her to cover her smallclothes, then said, “All right,” allowing him to turn again.  
  
          She threaded her needle and got to work. At first her hands felt clumsy, after being so long without practice, but soon she found her rhythm and stitch by stitch began to sew shut the slashes. The motions made her feel calm, relaxed. She didn’t notice the Hound staring, lost in her own world.  
  
          The Hound tugged off his gauntlets clumsily and kicked off his boots. He untied the laces of the leg bracers and managed to pull the gorget off from around his neck without smacking himself in the face. Off came his swordbelt, but when he tried to get at the bracers, his fingers were clumsy, and it was difficult enough work with one hand when he was _sober_. He cursed loudly, and the little bird looked up.  
  
           Sighing, she set her work aside, “Here, let me help you,” she offered.  
  
           “Don’t worry yourself about it, girl. I don’t need your help,” he said thickly.  
  
          She ignored him and knelt beside him, she’d gotten used to the way the armor tied and had gotten better at undoing and redoing all the knots and straps that had once daunted her. He gritted his teeth and turned away from her. He knew he must stink of wine, and felt guilty. _If anyone came, if something happened, how would you protect her? Drunk as a dog. Stupid. Stupid._ One arm was finished, so she moved on to the other, the pile of dented armor beside him growing. He turned the other way, _why didn’t you kiss me?_ He heard her ask. _You must know._ He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, feeling like a fool. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand her. When she started to help him unlace his studded leather he looked down at her, “How did that story of yours end, girl?”  
  
          She glanced up at him, but continued her task. Something she saw when she looked up made her shake her head, “I…don’t remember.”   _Gods_ , she was pretty. Her hair glinted like copper in the firelight.  
  
           “Don’t lie to me, little bird,” he rasped, as she helped him pull of the armored tunic. “Tell me. Go on. Tell me what the pretty lad did when he got to his fair maiden. How does it go, in your stories?”  
  
          She pressed her lips together, “They’re just silly stories. That’s all. It doesn’t matter.”  
  
           “ _Tell me,”_ he growled.  
  
          She sighed wearily, pulling away the chainmail in pieces. “He…climbed the tower…and when he climbed in through her window, he went to his knees and presented her with one of the scales from the dragon-“  
  
           “When did he get the scale?” he asked, sounding annoyed.  
  
           “Oh. I…don’t know, I suppose after he’d slain the dragon. I forgot that part.”  
  
           “Fine, then, go on,” he grumbled, pulling away the last of his heavy chainmail and leaning his head back against the door, folding his arms across his chest.  
  
           “Well, when she saw him kneel-“  
  
           “What was his name?”  
  
           “What?” she asked, sounding a bit miffed at the interruption.  
  
           “The lad’s name. You never said his name.”  
  
           “Oh…I don’t remember it.”  
  
           “Hmph.”  
  
          She waited a moment before she continued, to make sure he was done. He closed his eyes and nodded. “When he presented her with the dragon scale, she knew that he had come to rescue her. So, she…she ran to him, and he spun her around, and they kissed.” The Hound snorted. Sansa was getting more uncomfortable with the whole situation, the moment had long been lost and the story felt empty as ever. She wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. “So, he…I don’t know, he carried her down the tower- I don’t remember how- and…there was a golden ship waiting for them. Oh- wait- no, I forgot the part… nevermind. Just….There was a golden ship waiting for them to take them home, and, and when they arrived he was knighted, and there was a big feast and everyone cheered because they were safe. From the dragon. And…so, yes, he was knighted, and he and Lysandra were wed. And he was given a castle and all the singers wrote…songs about it, and his bravery, and Lysandra’s beauty…and they had seven children, and lived happily ever after.” She was relieved to finish, and couldn’t understand why she had chosen that story before. It was such a _stupid_ story.  
  
           “Seven children, eh?” he said, clearing his throat and opening his eyes. She nodded. “Bunch of dumb cunts,” he grumbled. They sat in silence for a few moments.  
  
           “I’m…I’m sorry. I should have told you a better story, a different one.”  
  
          He snorted, “A better one? Spare me. They’re all the same.”  
  
           “They are not.”  
  
           He didn’t know why, but he suddenly felt angry with her. “That right? Tell me, little bird, which is the story about the sweet princess _doesn’t_ fall in love with the strongest, most handsome knight in the shiniest bloody armor? The one where the monster doesn’t turn into a handsome prince at the end- he just stays ugly? The one where they don’t live happily ever buggering after? Or the-“  
  
           “Stop it, that’s not _fair_ -“  
  
           “No, it isn’t _fair_ , little bird.” He was being cruel. He didn’t care. He wasn’t thinking straight.  
  
           “They’re _stories_ , they aren’t meant to be _real_ \- I said I was _sorry_ , I shouldn’t have-“  
  
          He laughed, “Don’t be _sorry_ for me, little bird, I know what I am. I know I’m not…what’s it, Florin?”  
  
           “…Florian,” she whispered.  
  
           “I know I’m not that. Don’t you know better by now? Your pretty knights don’t exist-“  
  
           “…I know.“  
  
           “You damn well don’t act it, girl. I saw how you swooned over that one boy in his pretty armor, the young queen’s brother-“ _Shut up, you’re drunk. Stop talking._  
  
           “…Ser Loras…”  
  
           “-Renly’s lay. And you kept on your swooning well after your beloved prince showed his true colors, and all the other _sers_ , and _still_ you always look at the prettiest thing…and the Imp was the one who _saved_ you when you were being beaten, and you still couldn’t stand to look at him- Tell me, girl, how many times do you have to be hit before you _stop_ falling down in front of everything that _looks_ pretty? Will you ever open your stupid buggering eyes? How many men have to r-”  
  
          She slapped him, _hard,_ and that shut him up quick. He looked at her, and her eyes got wide like she thought he might hit her back. She scrambled up to run but even when he was drunk, he was faster. He grabbed her by the wrist, and she tried to pull away.  
  
           “I’m sorry- I’m _sorry!_ Stop it!” she said, she was shaking, and he could see it in the wetness of her eyes that she was trying not to cry. _Stop it,_ he told himself. _You’re scaring her. You’re scaring her away. Fix it. Let go._  
  
           “Damn you, girl, I’m not going to _hurt_ you- just-“ his face twisted, he was scared and he didn’t know why, and he tried to think of the right words to say. _I’m sorry, little bird. I’m sorry. Just stay._  
  
          Sansa donned her ladies’ armor, lip trembling, doing her best to keep her voice even. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. It was…a stupid story, and I shouldn’t have told it. I didn’t mean to upset you. Please, let me go.”  
  
           Her face was still, and she didn’t meet his eye, and spoke to him like she spoke to the Lannisters, and it made him feel sick. He released her arm, defeated. “Spare me. I know I’m not one of your handsome knights, I don’t want to be.”  
  
          She drew back her arm and slid it under the folds of her cloak, pulling it tightly around her like a blanket. Now that he wasn’t forcing her, she took a breath and added, softly, “But…you still saved me.”  
  
          Was she mocking him? “I didn’t save you, little bird.” _Just took you from one danger to another._  
  
           “You  _did_ , though. I know…I know the stories aren’t real, I’m not a child. I know that… _knights_ don’t have shining armor, and dragons aren’t real, and _all_ of that. But…I didn’t have _anyone_ at King’s Landing. You were...my only friend, the only one who looked out for me at all, the only one who even…who _talked_ to me. You saved me, more than once, and…just because you…aren’t a knight, or, don’t have...golden armor, or, or any of that, doesn’t make it any less _true_. I’m not _stupid_. It’s just…you can be so hateful.”  
  
          Sandor Clegane was speechless, and his head hurt, and it was _very_ late, and his heart was pounding. He didn’t look up at her, couldn’t meet her eye, and so she turned to walk away. _Why didn’t you kiss me?_ He tried to get up, because she was _leaving_ him and he had to stop her, so he grabbed her cloak and she turned and tried to pull it out of his grasp, “ _Stop it!”_ But he didn’t hear her, he took her by the arm and pulled her into him, and he suddenly felt panicked, but he’d already started to cross the line, so on his knees he took his other hand cupped the back of her head, his thumb brushing against her cheek. He closed his eyes tight, preparing himself to be hit again as his fingers curled in her hair and he pressed his lips to hers.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The kiss that was, redux_

          Sansa heard him grunt and stumble, but she didn’t turn around. _Don’t look back at him, don’t give him the satisfaction._ When he grabbed her cloak, she pulled back- she was only in her smallclothes underneath and she was _tired_ of this silly game, his stupid insults, “ _Stop it,”_ she pleaded, she didn’t want to talk about it anymore-  
  
          -but he didn’t want to talk, and suddenly his arms were around her and they were close, they were _so_ very close- and his hand was on her cheek, and when he finally kissed her she felt like her heart might burst. She gasped softly, taken by the shock of it, and her first instinct was to pull away, but he didn’t give her that choice with his arm that had grabbed her now positioned at the small of her back. So instead, she closed her eyes, and she softened into him. His kiss was hard, and his lips tasted like wine. She could feel with her lips where his twisted into scars, but it didn’t bother her, she didn’t care. Somehow, she felt like she’d wanted this for a very long time, without having ever actually known it was what she wanted. And for a moment, she lost herself, draping her arms around him, and she felt like she was on fire, and the only way to escape the flames was through him, and she wanted the kiss to last forever.  
  
          When the kiss broke and their foreheads pressed against each other, they were both breathing as if they’d been holding their breath for an eternity. “Sorry,” he grunted with a wince, not daring to open his eyes, unable to let go of her.  
  
            Sansa’s nose tapped against his as she exhaled softly. She dismissed his unnecessary apology with a small shake of her head, and somewhat timidly let her face tilt in again, feeling her nose brush against his cheek and her heart swell as their lips met once more. He inhaled sharply at the return of her kiss, pressing into her. Sansa softly lay her palm flat against the side of his face, and the two of them savored the brief moment until Sandor felt he must break the kiss once again, worried that if he didn’t he might not find the will in him to stop later.  
  
           He pulled away, sitting back with his head thudding against the wall, his arm around her waist forcing her to stumble forward after him. She caught fall with a hand on his chest, and he took her arm and pulled her down to him, turning her waist so that she was sitting between his legs with her back against his chest. His large arms slid under hers and he held her around the middle, and she lay her arms over his and relaxed against him, feeling his heart beating against her, and something hard against the small of her back. He rested his chin on the top of her head for a moment then she felt him remove it and heard a light ‘bump’ as he relaxed it back against the wall.  
  
           “There…Now I’ve kissed you. Now you can shut up about it.” he rasped stiffly, with a heave of his impossibly broad chest. This was unchartered territory for them, and while Sansa generally didn’t enjoy the unexpected, it excited her in this particular instance. She felt warm, and safe, and wanted to be as close to him as possible, to press herself against him and have him pull her in tight like ivy around a tree. She squeezed his arms to her tighter and turned her head to the side to rest it against his chest, just below the dip in his neck. She let her eyes flutter closed, and their fingers intertwined with each other. It was like this that they fell asleep.

 

          Sandor Clegane had never kissed anyone before, not like that, and not with someone who wasn’t being paid to do it. And she, _she_ had kissed him back. She _had_ kissed him back, hadn't she? _She kissed back. It was no dream. You were not that far gone that you would imagine that, else why would she still be here?_  He was lying on the hard floor, staring up at the ceiling, with one arm draped around the cloaked girl that was lying halfway on the floor and halfway over his chest, her arm across his stomach, hand grasping his tunic. The arm not wrapped around her lay gently over her hand, thumb stroking idly against her soft skin. They had fallen asleep together and when he woke up, they were like this, on the floor, with her still fast asleep. He felt…baffled, and so _stupid_ , and, very cautiously, happy…and _scared._ He had the urge to run away, but at the same time he didn’t want to move, didn’t want the moment to end, and of all things he didn’t want her to wake up, because that is what scared him most of all. _It was just a kiss_ he told himself, _kisses don’t mean anything_. But a kiss _did_ mean something, to him. He knew it was backwards, but he could handle all the _rest_ of everything, that was nothing, that was a dance he'd had many times, but it was the _kiss_ that was the scariest part, the part that made him nervous like a green boy.  
  
          He needed to get up, they would have to ride today and he had it in his head to get her a horse, but he couldn’t very well leave her lying on the floor. He wanted them to get out of here by sunup in case anyone had seen them the night before...word traveled fast. She stirred against him, and he let out a sigh, squeezing her arm a bit and ever-so-carefully sitting up, the arm that had been wrapped around her dipping down under her legs and with a grunt he stood with her. His head pounded against his skull. She curled into his chest with a tired groan and he carried her to the bed, nudging her sewing onto the floor with his leg as he set her down tenderly, unable to help himself from staring at her in her smallclothes. _Stop it_. He pulled her cloak around her a bit more then put on his boots and swordbelt and slipped out of the room, not wanting to wake her by attempting to put on his armor.

 

          Sansa was drifting in and out of sleep. When she did wake, the room was bright, the fire was dead, she was on the bed, and the Hound was gone. _Where did he go?_ She stood up quickly- too quickly, so she steadied herself against the bed until her head stopped rushing. _His armor is still here_ she noted, feeling a bit relieved, but still uneasy. He’d left her _alone_. Then, _He kissed me_ she remembered, her tummy suddenly full of butterflies. She touched her fingers to her lips and smiled to herself, running a hand through her hair. _He kissed me…_ She took a moment to relish the memory, suppressing the girlish urge to giggle and twirl about. _Don’t be silly_ she told herself, feeling impossibly giddy until she remembered reality. _Where did he go?_ She opened the door a crack and peered out, but it was mostly quiet, not a sign of the Hound or anyone else. Sighing, she closed the door, pacing around the room for a bit before finally returning to the bed, gathering her dress and needle from the floor to continue repairing the damage, having nothing else to do to occupy her time. 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A gift_

          That’s how the Hound found her when he returned; stitching away at the tears in her dress, copper hair draping over one side of her head. He’d had a rather successful morning thus far, although he had gotten some blood on his tunic. When Sansa looked over at him she went wide-eyed, “Are you hurt?”  
  
           “Hm? Oh. No….not mine,” he rasped.  
  
          She stared expectantly until he turned away, offering no further explanation and getting to work putting his armor back on. It was not lost on Sansa that he did so rather loudly to effectively end any hope she might have of questioning him further. He was able to put on more armor on his own than he could take off because the arms were the last part he did, allowing for better range of motion up until that point. It was tedious work, and on more than one occasion he’d thought about leaving it all behind, but he wasn’t about to go riding with the girl unarmed. When he’d gotten as far as he could on his own, Sansa came over to help with the rest, everything just as it had always been.  
  
           “Get dressed. We have to go.”  
  
          Sansa didn’t bother arguing. She knotted off her thread and broke the needle free, sticking it safely in the soft spool which then disappeared into the folds of her cloak. She looked at him and gestured toward the far wall, “Could you…?”  
  
          He grumbled, but turned away, leaning a shoulder to the wall. When she had finished pulling the dress over her head, she pulled the cloak back around her and said, “All right,” as she was finishing the last few laces. She tied the belt around her waist, being careful not to accidentally stab herself with the little knife attached to it. She hated that stupid knife, but he insisted she keep it with her, so she did, albeit reluctantly. _I was useless with it last time, I shall be useless with it again._  
  
          He led the way outside and to the horses. On the way there, Sansa did not miss the stunned silence they were met with in the inn as people made a point to stay as far away as possible, nor did she miss the rather large pool of blood outside that trailed and dragged around the side of the inn somewhere. She opted to keep her mouth shut about it. Instead of going to Stranger, Sandor untied an amber-haired horse with dark mane, a good deal smaller than Stranger, but then so were most horses. Both this horse and Stranger were already saddled, and the Hound took care to keep Stranger well away from the other…the black destrier wasn’t known for being a friendly horse.  
  
           “This one’s yours now. Come here.”  
  
          She did, and he lifted her up onto the saddle that did not belong to them, not that she really needed the help on this one seeing as it wasn’t the massive beast that Stranger was. She leaned forward a bit and gave the horse a soft pat on the shoulder. It _was_ pretty but, “How did you get it?”  
  
          He mounted Stranger with a grunt, “Was a gift.”  
  
          She eyed him. “From whom?”  
  
           “Someone who won’t be needing it anymore,” he rasped, pointedly. “Stay off to the side, don’t pull up near this one’s head unless you’re looking to fight a horse,” he instructed her, referring to Stranger.  
  
          Sansa nodded and pulled her hood down over her face a bit more. When the Hound rode, she followed smiling…it felt rather freeing to be able to ride her own horse, regardless of how it had been obtained, but she tried not to think too much about that. The horse itself seemed to be the exact opposite of Stranger- she was easy to control, placid, and entirely unimposing. She required only the slightest of guidance from Sansa, and soon she was trotting along with a silly grin on her face while the wind whipped her hair around like a flag. Never had she enjoyed riding a horse so much, not even worried about her dress smelling of horse later. 


	20. Chapter 20

          They had found a nice clearing where the horses could be watered and rested, Sansa’s amber keeping a good distance from Stranger after making the mistake of grazing on the same patch of grass and getting bitten for it. The ground seemed to turn seamlessly to water, the smooth landscape disturbed only by scattered clusters of mossy boulders. Sandor was sitting on the rocks, hunched over a bit with his brow furrowed, staring at nothing in particular and occupied by his thoughts. Sansa was sitting near him on the rocks watching her horse as it shook its mane free of flies, thinking if she ought to bother naming the it or not. All she could think of was Lady, her wolf, and what grief it had brought her. _It’s only a horse…naming it will only hurt later…but I can’t very well keep calling it ‘the horse’…_ She looked at the Hound’s warhorse, then back to her own, and suddenly the thought came to her with a laugh.  
  
          Sandor glared over at her, “What?”  
  
          She pressed her lips together, “Nothing.” _Maiden._ The horse was timid, but gentle, and beautiful, and the absolute antithesis of the imposing and menacing Stranger…and she knew the name would make the Hound grimace. She knew it would make him grimace, and that made her smile. It seemed to be an ongoing game between the two that had started long ago, a game that Sansa was just catching onto.  
  
           “I think I will name her Maiden,” she said nonchalantly, looking up at the horse then glancing at the Hound, keeping her face still as silence awaiting his reaction.  
  
          His head snapped over to look at her angrily, nose wrinkling, “Stupid fucking name.” Sansa grinned; it was perfect.  
  
          Before she could relish the moment for too long, the Hound stood, looking down the road apparently noticing what Sansa had not. She turned around. Three riders, no banners, were coming their way. As they got closer, Sansa could see them more clearly- they looked like they might be some manner of soldier. At least, the one in the middle did. He was the only one in metal, the other two were in boiled leather, but armored just the same. It became clear that the middle rider was more seasoned than the other two, older and filled into his armor well, with a thick beard streaked with grey. Sansa pulled her hood up, but none of the riders were looking at her.  
  
          They pulled up about ten paces from the Hound, the middle rider dismounting first, “How goes it?” he called, grinning in a way that made Sansa feel uneasy.  
  
          She looked to the Hound but his face was as angry and unreadable as ever, “The fuck do you want?” he growled.  
  
          The man raised his arms, “Peace, ser. We’re only looking to water our horses. My sons and I are weary from travel.” One boy had dismounted, the other stayed upon his horse, and Sansa found herself feeling oddly claustrophobic despite being in an open field- the way they stood reminded her of the way wolves stood when surrounding their prey, and the way the older man spoke reminded her of Littlefinger; slow and calculated, smug like he knew something they didn’t.  
  
           “I’m not a ser. Go water your horses somewhere else.”  
  
           The man’s lips twitched, and he glanced back at the boy on the ground for a moment before returning his gaze to Sandor. “No, indeed. I meant it only as a formality…you’re the Hound, of course. And…a companion?”  
  
          The Hound didn’t flinch, didn’t take his eyes off the man, “A whore.”  
  
           “A whore with her own horse? How charitable of you…but I suppose with that face of yours, whores must demand a steep price.” If the words bothered the Hound, he didn’t show it. Sansa wished she could cast aside her emotions that easily. “We just stopped by a tavern, not a day’s ride from here… and we heard the most interesting story…would you like to know what it was?”  
  
           “Piss on your stories. What I’d like is for you to turn your buggering horses ‘round and find some other place to water them, or you won’t have any bloody more horses left.”  
  
           He paid the Hound’s words no mind, and Sansa had the urge to crawl behind a boulder. “Terren, would you tell me again what the woman in the tavern told you?”  
  
          The boy on the ground spoke, “Said the Hound just come through with a young woman. Drank more wine than anyone else that night and come morning left in a hurry, but not before killing a man and taking his horse.”  
  
           “That’s right,” the man nodded, raising a brow at the Hound “…Did you know they’re offering a knighthood to the man who kills you? They say _you_ took the Stark girl....Well, Lannister girl, now. They’re offering lands and a lordship to the man who returns her to her family alive. Say she murdered the king with the help of her imp husband…Your whore wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, now, would she?” The Hound had heard enough, and swords were drawn instantly, three _shings!_ sounding off in near unison. “Come, now…give us the girl, and we’ll let you go. With a lordship, we’ve no need of a knighthood. Three to one is hardly a fair fight, save yourself a lot of trouble. We’ll let you keep her horse, too.”  
  
          The Hound took the first step, going for the man first, “Killing three rats is no trouble,” he snarled, bringing his sword down hard. Steel met steel, and the dance began. Sansa could only stare and pray and wish she could do something. “Behind you!” she screamed.  
  
          The Hound sidestepped without looking back. They boy’s sword met air and the rest happened in a blur. He knocked the boy down, whose sword flew from his hands as he hit the floor. Sansa didn’t know where the courage came from, but scrambled to grab the sword, the weight surprising her. The boy had only just rolled to get up, dizzied by the force of the blow he had sustained. She ran, dragging the sword with her. The boy chased after. _You just have to run faster than him_ she told herself. He caught her by her cloak and she spun around quickly, slashing at the boy’s sleeve purely by accident.  
  
          She let out a shocked “Oh!” as he bled, crimson seeping into his sleeve. The boy looked just as shocked, but he quickly recovered and grabbed his sword back with a rough twist and a yank, sending her stumbling back.  
  
          The Hound had gotten the older man on the ground. The man tried to swing his sword, but it was an awkward angle, and the blade only hit the Hound’s leg, while the Hound’s sword plunged into his neck. The boy came running up, and as the Hound turned, an arrow struck him in his thigh. Sansa had completely forgotten all about the boy on the horse, who was now grasping a bow. The Hound cursed, and when his sword met with the Terren’s, their fight lasted only a couple seconds. Sansa could see the boy’s hands shake, struggling to still his sword against the indomitable Hound. The poor boy didn’t stand a chance against the brother of the Mountain, and the Hound had grown tired of toying around with his prey. He stabbed the boy right through his leathers as easily as a spear through water. Another arrow hit him in the back, and Sansa shrieked through her hand, which was covering her own mouth. The Hound snarled at the boy on the horse, walking up to him and sheathing his sword. The boy was shaking, clumsily trying to fit the next arrow to the bow. He hadn’t even managed to pull it back when the Hound reached him, knocking the bow from his hands and grabbing him by the neck.  
  
          The boy screamed, terrified, for he was just a child, perhaps only a few years older than Bran would be now. Sansa hadn’t noticed it before, but the look in his eyes as the Hound grabbed his neck made him look so vulnerable, years younger than he had looked only ten minutes before. “Stop it!” Sansa cried, but the Hound didn’t hear, he just pulled the boy off the horse and snapped his neck, letting him fall limp to the ground. He reached behind himself and yanked the arrow from his back, it came out clean; it didn’t even have the force to go through his armor. The arrow in his thigh was a different story. He yanked it out and tossed it aside in disgust, and more blood was added to the already forming deep red stain on his trousers. He searched their bags for anything of use.  
  
           Sansa was staring at the lifeless boy in horror, “You didn’t have to kill him…he was just a child.”  
  
           “A child with a weapon, and a mouth to tell tales.”  
  
           “He was frightened.”  
  
           “He should have been. I’d just killed his stupid cunt family and I was going to kill him, too. It’s done.” He found nothing worth taking in the bags, and so he gave each horse a sharp smack on the rump and sent them running.  
  
           “But-“  
  
           “I don’t want to hear it, girl,” he snapped, “Shut up and get on your bloody horse. We need cover.”  
  
          She did, and they rode, and the longer they rode, the worse she felt. _You should have thanked him. Why didn’t you thank him? Would you rather the child had killed him instead?_ _‘_ The Lannister girl,’ they had called her. She shivered despite the warm summer evening and drew her cloak tighter around her, gripping Maiden’s reigns harder than necessary. _The Lannister girl._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twenty chapters! Whew!  
> I promise there is much more to come!! Thank you for all the positive comments thus far- tickled that people seem to be enjoying reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it :P Any feedback is greatly appreciated


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A small moment_

          Sansa’s auburn hair fell over her shoulders like spilling honey. The light of the fire was dim, but enough that Sandor could see her face as she dressed his leg. His armor had been removed and he was leaning back against an old fallen tree with his trouser leg rolled midway up his thigh. The skin was split two ways, pierced by the arrow and slashed just below from the sword. It wasn’t bad, but there had been a lot of blood, and the little bird had made quite the fuss. She had washed it, and was now wrapping it using torn cloth from the cloak she slept on.  
  
          The arrow had torn at his muscle and shredded it, making it throb every time he moved the leg. But the most pain had been from her reaction to everything after the fight. He was put in a foul mood by it all day, which he was only now getting over, but he knew it was his own fault. He’d been around the girl too long and imagination got the best of him; when he killed the last boy he half expected her to throw herself at him in tears, “ _You saved me!”_ And it would annoy him and he would grumble but he would hug her close just the same. _She didn’t, though. She was more worried for the boy who put arrows through you than for you or your bloody leg. Stupid Hound._  
  
          As if she could read his thoughts, she took a breath and said, “I’m sorry, for before I…should have thanked you. It was not a fair fight…and they would have taken me if it wasn’t for you.”  
  
          He grunted, “Hmph.” He wanted to reach for her, but she seemed so far away. Neither of them had spoken of the night at the tavern, of the kiss, and it seemed like nothing had changed. And she was being guarded with him again. _Don’t be so harsh, she’s young, she didn’t mean it._ His mouth twitched, “You don’t have to apologize to me, little bird. Or thank me,” he grumbled.  
  
          She looked up at him and gave him a soft smile. It was worth it. All was forgotten. How could he hold a grudge against such a beauty? She tied off the wrapping and lay her hand on his knee, “Finished. That…that should stop the bleeding. But you’ll have to let me sew the cut in the morning.”  
  
          But he wasn’t paying attention. Without thinking too much about it, he reached out and took her hand in his, gently. He needed to know. She removed her other hand from his knee and stared at his hand around hers, and his heart sank for a moment. But then she smiled, just barely, and slowly put her hand over his, like a snowflake falling upon a stone.  
  
           “Sansa…” he began, but when she looked into his eyes he forgot everything. He didn’t remember why he’d spoken, if he’d meant to tell her something, or if he just wanted to hear himself say her name. He’d never really felt the need to be affectionate with anyone…but he wanted to now. He just didn’t _know_  how. Not in the way he thought she wanted.  Instead, he squeezed her hand softly and shook his head, “Nothing.”  
  
          But she seemed to understand.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which the two spend the night with each other in a room, by the fire, and Sansa loses something (Or gives it away)_

          They had been riding for nearly a month, and the weather had been kind to them. Today, however, the sky unleashed its fury while the two were riding out in the open. The clouds were black, and what had started as a drizzle became a downpour, one which they could not escape. They rode desperately looking for any sign of a safe place to stay, some shelter. Finally, mercifully, they found a toppled little village at the eastern edge of the Barrowlands, one of many that had been abandoned or looted in the midst of the war. There was a small stone tower that seemed to be the most in-tact of all the buildings, but there was nothing they could do for the horses.

          They grabbed what they could and rushed inside, utterly soaked after riding in the rain for well over an hour, then went out again to tie the horses. A thunderclap startled Sansa’s Maiden, causing it to rear. Sansa moved to get out of the way, but instead slipped in the mud, unhurt except for her pride, but still covered in sludge. Clegane went to her, laughing once he saw she was fine, and extending a hand to help her up. She took it, and he pulled her up then lifted her into his arms. She couldn’t help but laugh at herself as well, wrapping her arms around his neck as he carried her back inside. He set her down gently when they were inside, stooping down to give her a kiss, which she returned, blushing.  
  
          Within minutes, they were both miserable again. Rain in the South was usually welcome relief, but up in the North the icy rain bit and stung, chilling to the bone. They waited for another hour, and were no warmer and no drier for it, but the rain had let up a bit and they had used the time to remove the Hound’s armor and wiped the mud off it from where he’d held Sansa.  
  
          Now, he stood. “Going to see if there’s dry wood anywhere. Fucking freezing,” he said, through clenched teeth. Sansa nodded stiffly, knees clutched to her chest, wet hair sticking against the side of her face.  
  
          When he returned, it was with a bundle of blankets, damp on the outside, in which the Hound had wrapped what dry wood he could find. He unrolled the blankets and let the wood clatter to the floor, most of what looked like broken bits of chairs or other furniture. It wasn’t much, but it would do. He stuck them into the blackened hearth, and after a few minutes of cursing angrily, the wood finally caught fire, filling the tower with an amber glow. He pulled off his tunic next, wringing it out and spreading it by the hearth to dry. She remembered the last time she’d seen him without his shirt on, then realized she was staring so she quickly averted her eyes and blushed, blinking. Next, he walked to the blankets, favoring his uninjured leg, and picked up one of the thicker ones, “Get out of your wet clothes, and wrap yourself in this.”  
  
          It was so abrupt that Sansa gaped at him, “My clothes?”  
  
           “Stop it. I’ll turn away if it will make you feel better, but you’ll freeze yourself if you don’t. I can’t fix a fever, and I won’t make all this risking my life meaningless, so take the damn clothes off.”  
  
          He was cold and agitated, Sansa knew, but she cringed at his words all the same. Part of her wanted to leave her clothes on just to spite him, but the thought was only there for a moment, beat out by the gripping cold. She stood, turning away from him even to unclasp her cloak, now heavy with rain. Next came her dress, which stuck to her so that she had to peel it away before letting it drop to the floor. She was left only in her white shift. She crossed her arms in front of her chest, legs pressed tightly together, goosebumps all over her shivering skin.  
  
           “I’m not going to look.” It was a bit of a lie, he probably would have stolen a few glances.  
  
          She shook her head, “Just…the blanket, please.” _Damn you, girl._  
  
          As he walked to Sansa, she looked back at him apprehensively, for a second thinking he meant to take the shift off himself. The thought of it made her stomach feel funny, but before she could ponder it he’d spread the blanket wide in his arms like wings and wrapped it around her in a hug, lifting her, and plopping her down in front of the fire without a word. He twisted the water from her clothes and laid them out beside his tunic, then grabbed his own blanket, which was entirely too small to wrap all the way around him, making him wear it like a sort of scarf-cape.  
  
          Sansa looked at him curiously, “You’re not…? …Your trousers are wet.”  
  
           “Well I can’t very well take them off when I’ve nothing to cover myself with,” he snapped. Then he eyed her with a sigh, “Come here.” She raised her eyebrows, but before she had the chance to say anything he said it again, “Come here, girl- you’re shivering. I’m bloody freezing, too. There’s no one here but us- bugger your manners and modesties.”  
  
          He was right….she didn’t know why she was so timid. _Stop acting like a scared little girl, Sansa_ she told herself. _Why must you act like you don’t want to go with him? What are you so afraid of?_ She bit her lip, but forced herself to stop the bad habit. She looked behind her as if expecting someone to appear…no one did. _Stop it! Why are you acting like a timid little girl?_ She summoned her willpower and meekly crawled over to him, keeping the blanket clutched tightly around her. For some reason, she felt like her stomach had dropped when he pulled his arms around her.  
  
          He didn’t mean to keep scaring her. But it was freezing, and he wanted warmth, and closeness, and he wanted _her_. He had self-control, he wasn’t trying to force her into any situation, but _Gods_ she could be so timid sometimes. _She’d let herself freeze to death before she would admit she was anything other than the perfect bloody example of a lady, as if there was such a thing._ Then, he wondered if he wasn’t just trying to fool himself, because when she came to him finally and was in his arms, suddenly he felt no chill. He wrapped her in his arms and turned, lowering himself onto his back so that she was on top of him.  
  
          No longer needing to keep the blanket clutched to her, she moved her arms to his chest, letting gravity keep the blanket on top of them. Her skin was still cold, though, and he blamed himself for not being able to find much food…better fed meant better able to warm yourself. His chest rose and fell, and the girl with it. He kept his arms over the blanket on her back, and did his best to ignore how her breasts pressed against him, separated only by thin wet fabric… She was beautiful and he wanted her, but he cared for her, too. He didn’t want it any other way. So, he let his mind wander, but he kept his hands in place.  
  
          Slowly, Sansa was beginning to feel warmer. The fire helped, and the Hound’s arms around her helped, too. But as she lay on his bare chest, she started to feel a gnawing, hungry feeling in the pit of her stomach. She raised herself up a bit on his chest, exposing her upper half somewhat, and he tilted his head to look at her, then his eyes faltered lower. Without a word, without a second thought, she slid herself up and kissed him. He returned it softly, his hand dipping down the blanket to the small of her back, and she wanted _more_.  
  
          He could feel the way her heart was fluttering, and he kept his eyes glued to her as she raised herself up to him. She’d let out a sigh that sent his own heart racing, like an unspoken invitation that he instinctively knew what it meant, but didn’t dare believe it. He wouldn’t let himself be tempted only to be left out to dry.... When she didn’t pull away, he began to allow his hands more freedom, slowly testing the boundaries, sliding to her neck, her shoulders, her arms…he pushed the blanket back as he slid down to her waist, pulling her in more. She didn’t stop him, she didn’t even shy away. Part of him wanted to stop her, to ask what she was doing, what game or trick was she trying to play, but he couldn’t will himself to break the moment. He was lost.  
  
          She, too, was lost. She felt like she’d leapt off a cliff and was falling- there was nothing to do to stop the fall, no turning back, nothing left but to enjoy the sensation as warmth spread through her body. Part of it didn’t even feel real…like she was caught in a dream. His hand slid ever so slowly up from her waist to the side of her ribcage, and just as carefully he pressed up on the underside of her breast. Sansa’s heart skipped and she breathed into him. He made a noise, then pushed himself upright, lacing his fingers through the wet tendrils of her hair. Sansa’s own hands began to explore, trailing up his thick arms, dipping down at his shoulders and against his muscled chest, fingertips brushing over scars. She felt needy.  
  
          His mind was trying to process, trying to understand how and why this was happening. He curled his fingers to lift up the wet hem of her shift, gripping her bare thigh, allowing his fingers to press into the soft flesh. He was almost nervous; she was stunningly beautiful, she felt fragile but she was so strong, and she was overpowering him, and she _mattered_. Half of him wanted her, immediately, all at once, but the other half wanted this to last, and was afraid of it ending. Then she broke the kiss, her heavy breaths matching his, but she didn’t pull away, her forehead pressed to his. Still, it was enough to make him desperate to keep the moment, to not let her reconsider or talk herself out of it. _Don’t pull away, girl._  
  
          With one hand at her cheek, the other tugged at the bottom of her shift, “Let me see you,” he rasped.  
  
           She looked up at him. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her once, and she hesitated for a painful, agonizingly long two seconds, before she reached down to grip the hem. He helped lift her a bit as she peeled the wet shift away from her skin and rolled it up to her hips, easing her down when she’d cleared them. With a little breath as if to brace herself, she pulled the shift up over her head, exposing herself to him, her perfect, porcelain skin, every curve, her soft mounds, her stiff, pink nipples. She pulled her arms tightly against her body.  
  
           “ _Gods_ ,” he breathed, cursing.  
  
          He saw her blushing deeply, shyly staring at him staring at her, and he could see it was making her uncomfortable, self-conscious. _She’s a maiden_ he reminded himself. He slid his hands down her shoulders, one went to her thigh, the other moved to her breast as he stroked his rough thumb across her nipple. _Be gentle, don’t scare her._  
  
          Sansa had no idea what she was doing or what had come over her. The way he looked at her was like he was devouring her with his eyes. She’d _never_ been so exposed to a man, even on her wedding night, and yet nervous as she was she didn’t feel truly _exposed_ , not in the way she’d felt when Joffrey beat her in front of the courts. Her eyes followed his hand as it went to her breast, and when he touched her, she felt an electricity like she couldn’t have imagined, causing her to make a small noise, making her thighs feel hot. His eyes were studying her, drinking in her body, then always going back up to her face. Then his hand was at her back, and he loomed over her, lowering her down onto the fallen blanket. She reached up to his face and pulled it down to her, kissing him again. His hands continued to wander, to brush and flick and caress, he bit her lower lip softly, and then he dragged his fingertips up her thigh, easing her legs open a bit— she had the sudden, innate urge to close her legs together tightly, but she resisted— and dragging his thumb up between her legs, along her slit. His thumb came up slick and he let out a deep, throaty growl. The feeling was the same as she had felt before, only _more_ , and it made her whimper with need. She kissed him again, she wanted him.  
  
          He pulled back, just an inch, “Sansa…” he began, pressing his head to hers.  
  
          He was asking her a question. Asking for permission? She shook her head, she didn’t want him to talk, she wanted him, and she was scared, and nervous, and she felt that if she stopped for even a moment she wouldn’t ever find the courage to start again.  
  
           “Please,” she breathed, not sure what it was she was asking him for, but he didn’t need to hear anything more. He put his hand to her neck as he kissed her. Sansa could feel his movements, hear him fumbling with his trousers, tugging them down, and her heart was racing almost as fast as her thoughts.  
  
          Her eyes were closed. He cupped her chin, “Look at me,” he rasped. She did, her eyes linking with his. He wanted to see her, wanted her to see him. He didn’t want her to close her eyes, to imagine other things…he didn’t want her to regret it, he needed to see her, to know this was what she really _wanted_.  
  
          She stared up at him, taking in his eyes, the burned and unburned sides of his face, every ridge and hair and subtlety. He moved up a bit, and she felt hot, thick flesh press between her legs against her forbidden place. He clenched his jaw, and looked at her. She nodded.  
  
           “It will hurt,” he rasped, and she could see how much effort it took him to say it.  
  
          She didn’t care, she nodded, she just wanted to do it, to be a woman. He pressed at her entrance, against her barrier, guiding her knees up by his hips, and with a hand on her waist he pulled her into him and he leaned forward, sinking into her with a swift stroke.  
  
          She let out a little yelp, body tensing as he knew it would. It took every ounce of his willpower not to fuck her with the ferocity he was accustomed to. He held her to him as he eased inside, pressing the side of his head to hers, “You all right, little bird?” he asked, voice rumbling softly against her ear.  
  
          She gave a quick nod against him. He began to move, slowly, letting her body adjust to him, giving the pain a chance to subside. He pressed his lips to the side of her neck as he moved, dragging them along her jawline, teasing her breasts, pressing his face against her neck as he began to find his rhythm. Her breath was hot and shallow against his ear, and at first she didn’t make a sound. In a way, this was as new for him as it was for her…she was different, it was important, and it wasn’t just fucking, it _meant_ something. He’d never been too concerned with his other partners, he just took care of himself…he wasn’t paying for _them_ to feel good. But more than make her feel good, he wanted to feel her, to explore her every inch, to feel what made her squirm underneath him. She moaned.  
  
          He never once closed his eyes or looked away from her, like he didn’t want to miss anything, he wanted everything. She had relaxed now, too, and had slowly started to rock her hips up to match his. Her mouth hung slightly open as she breathed, cheeks flushed pink. It was when he thought he couldn’t last a second longer, when he was aching for release, that he felt her clench and shudder against him with a small cry of pleasure and surprise as she reached her own peak. He finally allowed himself to release, finishing with her, pulling her into him with a deep groan.  
  
          Her hands were on his chest and shoulders, her body trembling, and her chest rising and falling heavily. He stayed inside her as heat filled her and swirled inside her, and Sansa felt utterly exhausted. He dragged his thumb along her brow, tenderly wiping away the tiny beads of sweat. He gave her a searching look, as if to just make absolutely certain she was all right. She just gave him a tired, sort of distant smile as her breathing evened out, finally having the chance to process everything. He moved to slip out of her and sank down beside her on the blanket, keeping a gentle arm around her and staring up at the flickering ceiling...


	23. Chapter 23

          When he woke, the light of morning was just filtering in through the slit stone windows of the tower. _Shit_ he thought, remembering last night, and he felt his stomach twist. He cursed himself on instinct, _what were you thinking? What have you done?  
  
_            _…but she wanted it, she liked it, didn’t she?_ He had to think a moment, he shut his eyes, trying to remember. _Yes. She said yes. I didn’t force it out of her- did I? Idiot. She probably felt she had no choice. She probably didn’t realize…you stupid fool. Stupid arse._ He felt- or wanted to feel- great, hopeful…but he knew where such things led, he was no stranger to disappointment…unlike her, he assumed the worst, while she always seemed to assume the best, filling her little head with fantasies. They hadn’t been drunk, at least not on wine. But lust was a drink which could raze even the strongest inhibition. And Sansa had _many_ inhibitions, he knew. _You should have had more self-control. Damn her._   
  
          He remembered he’d released himself inside of her and another round of panic hit. _You idiot_. _You should have been more careful. Is this what you wanted? To have another bloody thing to worry about, more problems, more grief? You should have been more careful_ He didn’t even want to begin to think about that, about the consequences.  
  
            _She will hate you._ Perhaps they could find some moon tea, as a precaution. He closed his eyes tight and opened them again. _Look at her. You can’t stare at the wall forever. You’ll know one way or the other eventually._ He rolled over to face her, only to find her already awake, eyes big and blue and staring, giving him a start.   
  
           “ _Seven_  Hells,” he swore tiredly, turning his head away for a second- he hadn’t expected her to be awake already, he hadn’t expected to be met with big wide eyes. _She didn’t look upset- she wasn’t mad. Look at her._  
  
          When he turned back she was looking at the ceiling, and he feared he might have offended her, so he slid his arm across her bare stomach to grab her arm gently. _Please don’t pull away._ He couldn’t see all of her, the fire was nearly dead and she had tugged one of the blankets over herself in the night. She rolled to face him, and they just sort of stared at each other for a while, neither of them able to read each other’s faces. Her hand reached out and her fingertips brushed over his lips, feeling the soft flesh and then moving to the scarred side. It made him wince uncomfortably…he knew he couldn’t hide the burns, but he felt they were all the more exposed to her when she touched them, it was all a reminder what he was, what he really looked like.  
  
          He cleared his throat, “You all right, little bird?” She gave the slightest of smiles and nodded. Sandor felt a tightness in his chest loosen its hold, he could breathe a little easier. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her into him. His hand snaked under the blanket to lay atop her bare back, finger tracing a line along her spine. She kept the blanket pulled around her, and he didn’t try to change that. There was something endearing about her shyness, her modesty. It was a beauty other women he’d been with, whores, lacked, something that couldn’t be faked.  
  
          Finally, she spoke. “We…can’t go North, to The Wall, I don’t think…”  
  
          He was surprised at the sudden revelation and tried to hide his relief, but didn’t ask her to explain further. He had no desire to change her mind. “To Winterfell?”  
  
          She shook her head. “I…can’t go back there. Not yet. Don’t…ah, don’t you have lands?”  
  
          He snorted, “Clegane’s Keep belongs to Gregor. It’s in the South, and it’s miserable.” He never wanted to return there. She nodded with understanding and Sandor mustered up the courage to say what he had been thinking about since the Tavern. “No matter where we go…people will know you, and they’ll damn well know me. Westeros…is not safe, there’s nowhere for you to go where…” he didn’t know how to finish, he didn’t want her to think he was trying to steal her away, but if they stayed in Westeros they would only be going from one camp to another, and that was no way to live. “People will be looking for you.”  
  
          She was very quiet, but he could see her mind was working loudly in her head, the stony calculated look of a Stark. Slowly, she nodded, looking solemn and almost sad. “We shouldn’t stay here,” she agreed. With a sigh, she rolled over and found her shift, now dry. She let the blanket fall from her shoulders, and Sandor craned his head to look at her bare back turned to him before she pulled the shift over her head. She did not ask him to turn away.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Sandor and Sansa embark on another journey_

          Dry and dressed, they left the tower and mounted their horses whose legs were caked in mud. The Hound had gotten water for her to wash the blood and stickiness from her thighs, but other than that neither had said a word about the previous night, for neither of them had to. Sansa had, in turn, looked at his stitched wounds which seemed to be healing well, there was no sign of infection or rot.   
  
         She was surprised at how much she felt the same, after the previous night. She didn’t feel like she was really a changed woman, in a way it had all seemed like it had been a dream. In fact, she really hadn’t thought about the decision she’d made at all. She couldn’t stop thinking about it now, though, about the way she felt, the way he touched her, how he moved inside of her...her head was so far in the clouds that she was shaken out of it only by the sound of his voice, “Cover your face.”

          She did, and she realized why- they had reached the gates of White Harbor, the thirty-foot wall separating the inner and outer harbors from each other loomed over them. Sandor had his own scarf, in truth a long, torn blanket from the tower, which he used to cover his scars as best he could. They were bound for the outer harbor, where they would not have to pass the walls of the city, where they would not be as noticed. The plan was to find a ship bound for any of the nine Free Cities, where they would be far from Westeros but close to the Common Tongue. They dismounted their horses, bringing with them only their coin and the Hound’s flask, for they would have no use for horses or saddles on a ship.  
  
          Together, with heads bowed low, they walked the rest of the way to the harbor and shipyard. There were beautiful, ornately carved wooden vessels with masts that rose a hundred feet into the air, taking Sansa’s breath away. The buzz of the harbor was filled with bells ringing, carts rolling over cobblestone, merchants haggling and captains yelling commands. The air smelled of fish and the sea. They passed one ship after another before Sandor found one he seemed to think might allow them passage…to Sansa’s dismay, it was not one of the beautiful, rich merchant vessels. It was a slightly smaller ship, plain, and in need of new paint. The wood was naturally dark, which made it almost blend into the sea, a ship that did not want to be seen. The crew was busy, rolling barrels with unknown contents up the gangplank.  
  
          The Hound found the captain standing with two other men and a maester at the docks. “Where is she bound?” he rasped, referring to the ship.   
  
          The captain, a large, muscled man with a bald head and dressed in velvets raised his eyebrows, giving the two a look-over before he answered, “Lorath.” He said plainly, and without prompt from Sandor he continued, “We are not a passenger ship. However…if you seek discrete passage, room can be found, for those willing to pay, and those willing to work.” He looked from Sansa to Sandor as he said this in his thick accent.  
  
           “When do you leave?”  
  
           “As I am sure you can see, my crew is preparing the vessel to set sail. We expect to leave by night.”  
  
           “How much?”  
  
           “Three gold dragons…minimum.” The Hound gave him a sore look, to which he responded to with an unperturbed explanation. “One for the girl, one for safe passage, and one for my silence. She is of no use, where you can work for your keep. The journey is long, however…and should you expect to dine with the crew, and not on scraps, I will require a fourth gold piece. I am a fair man…I will not leave your companion to sleep down below with the crew, as part of our deal for safety. However should you wish to provide her with more comfortable accommodations, I shall require yet another gold piece. This makes five, and so on, and so on, as they say.”  
  
          The Hound grimaced and grumbled, but they did not have much choice. They could make the coin back in Essos. He turned his back to the merchant captain and bent over a bit to Sansa, who opened Tyrion’s leather purse. Luckily, her lord husband was not wont to go unprepared, but even so, he had only three golden dragons in his small pouch. The rest were silvers and a few coppers, but they did not want to spend the entirety of their money, or reveal how much they had, so Sandor took only the gold and gave it to the merchant who inspected each piece briefly and gave a nod, “Very good. You will know me as Rhaimese Mollen. This man will show you where to go, you will know him as Harquin. He serves me, and if you work well, he will serve to you and your companion the same.”  
  
          The Hound nodded, and allowed Harquin, a thin, mousy looking man who seemed to walk on air, to lead them up the gangplank. Sansa took a last look out at her old home. Way off, she could see Stranger and Maiden standing almost just as they had been left. _It’s only a horse_ , she told herself, but she couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt at leaving Maiden behind. Sniffing, she turned to follow Harquin and the Hound, wondering if she would ever see her horse again, if she would ever see Westeros again. 


	25. Chapter 25

          It was the fourth day of their voyage, and Sansa felt incredibly ill. It was her moon’s blood, she had barely seen Sandor at all, and she was not accustomed to the constant rocking of the ship. She didn’t know how anyone could get used to their world rolling around underneath their feet.  
  
        They had placed her in a small cabin used for storage with only the smallest of windows. She was given blankets and slept upon a pile of coiled ropes covered by the canvas of an old sail. The food was meager and harsh on the stomach- boiled eggs and pickled vegetables of all sorts, compote, and ale. Sansa managed to keep the one egg she had eaten down, but had eaten nothing since. The nausea made her face feel hot and limbs heavy.  
  
          The Hound had only come to see her on the second day, and only briefly. He’d given her a hug, asked if she was all right, and left as quick as that. Harquin brought her food each morning and night, leaving it outside of the door and giving it a tap. As Sansa lay on her side hugging herself, she felt her stomach bubble and clench, and wondered why the Hound had not come to see her, and she began to wonder if she had not made a horrible mistake, in more ways than one. She was not who she thought she would be, not the lady she had imagined when she looked in the mirror and thought of a beautiful, fairytale future.  
  
          _I am no longer a maiden… I am married to a Lannister imp who is a thousand miles away in a cell and I’ve given my maidenhead to the Hound._ She squirmed uncomfortably. How could she have been so foolish? She suddenly felt that she knew nothing of Sandor Clegane. She was a lady, and ladies could not, should not, give their maidenheads to men on a whim, men whom they were not wed to, on a silly fantasy.  _I am a foolish girl_ she thought, in dismay. She saw the Hound’s angry face, felt the knife pressed to her throat as he asked for a song. Then she saw the way he’d looked at her that morning when she was covered only by a blanket, felt the way he pulled her into his arms and held her close to him, the way he kissed her and the countless times he’d protected her. _A maidenhead’s a sweet prize_ he had told her. Sansa was torn. She had been foolish, yes, but she had also _wanted_ him, and she shouldn’t have, but perhaps… _Perhaps it was not a mistake…Perhaps you were not just a prize to be won…_ she stared at the dirty porthole. Perhaps it didn’t have to end. _Perhaps, one day, in the future..._  
  
           It was with a small knock on the door that she found the strength to sit up. She quickly smoothed her hair with her hand, “Come in,” she said, rather feebly.  
  
          It was Harquin. “Lady, you have not been out from your room, I am sent to see to you.”  
  
          Sansa forced herself to smile, “Thank you, that is very kind… I am sorry if I have offended the captain…I have been feeling unwell,” she explained. It felt nice to talk to someone other than the Hound, her courtesies all remembered instantly, her armor donned.  
  
          Harquin let out an understanding, “Ahhh” and said, “You are not knowing the sea. Yes?”  
  
          Sansa wasn’t entirely sure what he meant, but she did her best to answer, “I…have never been on a ship.”  
  
          He clicked his tongue, “But lady- you must come outside! The sea is a jealous lover! When you hide away, she makes you miserable, you must see her, breathe her air,” he held his hand out, “Come, lady, trust this man.”  
  
          The last thing Sansa wanted to do was to get up and move, but she couldn’t refuse; it wouldn’t be polite. She wiped her clammy palm on her skirt and took his hand, allowing him to pull her up with surprising ease in such a slight man. He led her through the narrow passages, and then out into the sunlight.  
  
          Sansa had to shield her eyes- her little dirty, clouded window had not prepared her for the view spread before her. The sun was as bright as she had ever seen it, the deep blue water sparkling with a million crystals. All around her, there was nothing but sea and sky. Men of all shapes and sizes, most well-tanned, worked away, climbing up ladders, cleaning, knotting and coiling ropes, and inspecting. There was one group hunched over some sort of game with dice and bets of all sorts of knick knacks. There was even a singer, sitting on a barrel and playing away at a weathered fiddle. The water was fairly calm, and thus so were the crewmen. The sea breeze whipped her auburn hair around and filled her lungs with fresh, clean air and for the first time since boarding, she smiled and meant it.  
  
           “Aha! You see, you are feeling better already, yes?” Harlequin grinned from ear to ear.  
  
          Sansa nodded gratefully, “Yes. Yes, much better. Thank you.” She searched around the crowd, looking for Sandor, “Where…?”  
  
           “You are searching for your giant? Just there!” He pointed, and there he was, though he was dressed in new clothes that better matched the coarsely woven browns and beiges of the rest of the crew. He was holding a thick rope that went all the way up the mast. Sansa followed it up with her eyes and saw that there was actually a man sitting in what looked like a cloth seat, either repairing something on the mast or the sail, Sansa couldn’t see which, and Sandor was acting as a counter-weight, slacking the rope to lower the man or pulling to raise him as he indicated. She desperately wanted to go to him. _No. He is busy. You will only distract him._  
  
          Harquin gestured out, “Please, do as you wish. The men will not harm you unless they have a wish for death,” he said, laughing, and nodding to the Hound.  
  
           “Thank you,” Sansa repeated, and the man gave a little bow and slipped away. Sansa looked around, there was really nowhere to go, but she didn’t want to stand alone on the deck. So, she summoned her courage and walked over to the group of men playing dice. There were five men playing, seated on the ground in a circle, and about six onlookers. All were crewmen, with rough hands and skin like leather. There were two other women, one with fair blonde hair and the brightest eyes Sansa had ever seen, and the other dark-haired and olive-skinned.  
  
           “Aha! The stowaway has decided to show her face!” Sansa wasn’t sure if the man who said it was joking or not.  
  
           “Come here, girl!” a skinny young boy whistled, and a large, bearded man who held the dice gave him sharp elbow.  
  
           “Shut it- don’t scare her away. We need more pretty women. You ever see a game of five faces?” Sansa shook her head, and the man grinned, large and toothless, “Easy game- Danny, get the girl a barrel!”  
  
          A brown-skinned man with thick, oily hair rose and dragged a barrel over from one of the walls, dusting it off a bit with his hand, and patted the top, indicating for Sansa to sit, which she did, thanking him.  
  
           “All right, girl,” said the bearded man, “You’re my good luck charm, so watch close. You’ll catch on quick, but if I lose.. I’ll have you tossed overboard.”  
  
          The men roared with laughter, and the fair-haired woman rolled her eyes, “They are joking, my dear, don’t look so scared.” Her voice was as light as her eyes, breathy, almost mesmerizing.  
  
          After a while, Sansa started to catch on. Each man would take turns rolling five dice, with one man keeping score (Sansa found it amusing that the man charged with scorekeeping was missing three fingers). It was simple, and each round went by fast, except rounds with ties. In the event of a tie, the men with tied numbers would have to run from one side of the deck to the other, the fastest man winning...according to one crewman's account, the tiebreaker round had not always been so tame, it was only after they started to lose good men that they were ordered to find a less threatening way to settle scores. The running became even more amusing as time passed and the men had filled their bellies with wine.  
  
          At the beckoning of one of the men, the singer had moved in closer, and was playing a version of _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ , which made Sansa smile and laugh, clapping along with the others and eventually singing along when she caught onto the foreign tune. She’d accepted some wine, which she found made her feel much more at ease with this group of boisterous men who were so unlike the highborn company she was accustomed to keeping. It was certainly fun, but so unpredictable that Sansa couldn’t imagine living every day like this, even if it was somewhat freeing. The olive-skinned girl had climbed from the man’s lap she had been sitting on and began to comb her fingers through Sansa’s hair, braiding it down her back.  
  
           She spoke in a low, throaty foreign tongue that the blonde translated, “She says you have beautiful hair, but the wind will knot it.”  
  
          As time passed, some men left, called to their stations, while others joined to take their place. The bearded man was among those who left, gathering up his won items, which included a hairpin, a wooden marble, some sort of sticky leaves, and some string. “You did good, Lady Luck!” and gave her the bent metal hairpin with a friendly wink. Sansa smiled and blushed shyly.  
  
          Minutes later, she felt a gentle nudge on her back. She looked up, and saw it was Sandor, making her smile grow even bigger. She wanted to jump up and throw her arms around him despite her reservations, but her upbringing prevented such displays, especially when neither of them wanted to bring attention to themselves. He didn’t return the smile, but gave her a nod which Sansa understood to be just the same, trying to ignore the tugging of her heart.  
  
          Sandor Clegane was not much different around these people than he ever was. He stood straight and solemn as ever, heavy brow furrowed. Grey eyes looked on as Sansa effortlessly made friends, clapping along with the songs that she didn’t know the words to, blushing and smiling. Most of the crew seemed to be from the free cities, and red hair was just as rare a thing there as it was in Westeros, if not more so. Every man there wanted to entertain her, to make her smile and giggle and blush like they knew she would. Sandor couldn’t compete with that. _She chose me_ , he reminded himself. _But she didn’t have any other options_ , said the other side. He was tired, hot, and grumpy from being in the sun all day doing hard labor…he was very good at it, but he didn’t enjoy it, not like he enjoyed a good fight. _You said you would protect her. This is part of it._  
  
          He hadn’t seen her in days, and it pained him. Now that he’d had a taste of her, all he wanted to do was be with her, be close to her, to hold her in his arms. She was so sweet, and delicate, and everything about her was wonderful, even the things that annoyed him. But the guarded part of him, the part that had learned never to trust, was threatened by the vulnerability it opened him up to. He needed rest. The sun had made him weary, and his thoughts were only draining him further. With a gentle nudge, he let Sansa know he was leaving. She looked disappointed, but he just nodded his goodbye and turned. She did not try to stop him.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lorath_

          At long last, they had reached the shores of Lorath. The Hound knew he could make good money here as a sellsword, but he would have to find a wealthy patron, and first a place for Sansa to stay that was safe. For all the grief it had given him to spend each day in the hot sun and each night on the ship in a room with two dozen other men, he was glad they had made it to shore safe. He didn’t like where his thoughts went when he was on his own, and his little bird was not near. He didn’t like the doubts, and the guilt, and the questions he asked himself. Sansa was with him, here and now, by his side. All was well.  
  
           With a few tips from some of the crew, he led Sansa along the cobblestone pathways that winded through the harbor city.  She locked arms with him, leaning her weight heavily as she walked for a bit until she found her legs. Women here dressed more freely, the men more richly, and every one of them in bright colors or earth tones. The whole city was bustling with bazaars and merchants, one after the other in a never ending line. They had agreed, for safety’s sake, that Sansa should go by the name of “Johanna”, a common Lyseni name that would also account for her bright eyes and light hair color. He knew his name would not matter as long as half his face remained a scarred and twisted brand, so he kept ‘Sandor’ and conveniently left out his surname, happily.  
  
          First, they bought a proper meal. Sandor spent some time searching for work, getting information from those who spoke the Common Tongue, with not much luck. With their remaining silver, he bought Sansa a proper dress, one better suited to the free cities, and a pair of slippers. The dress was of a light, flowing material with a belt and no sleeves that looked similar to the sort of dresses Sansa’s old handmaiden, Shae, had worn. However, this beautiful dress that matched the color of the sky was not a dress for whores.  
  
          In her new dress, with her new name, Sansa felt like she was playing a game that only she was in on, the games of pretend that were so far in her past they no longer felt quite as easy as they had been when she was in Winterfell. Not everyone spoke the Common Tongue, but she didn’t have to worry about being recognized. She didn’t feel like she was truly hiding, after all. She was free…they would not have to sleep on the dirty ground, she would not have to hide herself under a cloak, she would not have to wear clothes that had belonged to someone else.  
  
          While Sandor looked for work, Sansa took in the sights. Fruit vendors offered samples of their wares; dried apricots, sour plums, blackberries so ripe they stained her fingertips purple. Some of the vendors attempted to speak to her, but all Sansa could do was smile politely and hope she didn’t offend them by not understanding. Once, she looked up saw, for only a split second, a thin figure leaping from one rooftop to another, seeming to walk on air, face obscured by a cowl. The figure hung down off of the edge of the roof, and dropped down the wall and out of sight. Sansa looked around to see if anyone else was looking, but nobody else seemed to have seen. She stayed in Sandor’s sights, and every once in a while she could see his head above the crowd, turning back to what he was doing when his eyes found hers and he knew she was all right.  
  
          When her feet began to hurt from standing all day on uneven ground in a pair of new shoes, she made her way back to Sandor’s side, linking arms with him once more. Following a few leads, they walked through snaking roads until they found the steel markets. The steel markets were for people with need of hired swords, and where those who were skilled in fight could seek work. Just when the day was nearing an end and they thought they might have to find a room for the night, they found an interested buyer. He was a Braavosi man with curled black hair and a thick accent, who traded in spices. He had an estate in Lorath that was in need of more hired swords after two were recently killed. “But this one is so large, he is worth two!” he joked excitedly. His estate was large, though not by the standards of Westeros. However, excited as he was at the prospect of employing the Hound, he was reluctant at first to take Sansa in.  
  
           “You are worth two men, yes, but now you are having me house your companions? There are women in my estate, there is no need!” But it was Sansa who spoke up, explaining that Sandor was her brother, who had risked his life to bring her here. _Please, my lord_ , she’d said. The merchant was touched, as Braavosi seemed to have a penchant for drama, and expressed his deepest apologies at the misunderstanding, “Why, how can I separate family? Yes, you shall have a room, as long as your brother is able!” Sandor had been impressed with her, for that, and his little bird looked relieved and slightly guilty for her lie.  
  
          When they got to his estate they realized it wasn’t as if the man did not have rooms to spare. It was a two-story mansion with an iron gate that had the twisted shapes of birds flying across it. Beyond that was a rather extensive garden, filled with mostly flowers and shrubs, and an orchard out back. The only two trees in the front were planted on either side of the entrance to the house, which was made of a soft plaster-like material. The windows had no glass, unlike some estates in the area, but instead opened straight out into air. If this was only the merchant's second home, it was daunting to think of what his home in Braavos must be like.  
  
          The merchant’s hands showed Sansa her room, located in one of the eastern hallways of the second floor. It was lovely, with soft walls, a beautiful bed with velvet curtains, two windows with wooden shutters, and a silk-woven rug decorating the floor. Then, they showed Sandor to his room, but explained that of course he would be allowed to visit his sister when time allowed. As a hired protector of the estate and its residents, he was offered essentially free range of the grounds. Both Sansa and he would be well fed and taken care of, as long as Sandor did his job well. If not…well, they didn’t want to know.  
  
          On top of that, the merchant had insisted Sandor stow away his old armor, “This, no, this will not do.” He was measured and fitted, and when it was ready, given armor that matched the other hired swords, a brightly colored steel which was matted to avoid reflecting the sun, keeping it from getting too unbearably hot. The Hound did not say a word despite his annoyance at this, just nodded as usual, and did what he was told for his new master. The hope Sandor had of having time to spend with Sansa was diminished as days and nights began to pass with only glimpses of her in passing. The work here was comparable to his work at King’s Landing, with an added job of running very specific ‘errands’ for his employer, which usually ended with he and other guards returning to the estate with blood on their hands.

 

  
          When, at last, Sandor had some time, he had been guarding for over two weeks. Since the beginning of their voyage, they had not had a moment alone together. As soon as his last piece of armor had been helped off by the squires, Sandor went to her, desperate with longing. When he knocked on her door, she called, “Come in!” from inside.  
  
          She hadn’t known it was him on the other side, and he barely had time to close the latch on the door before she cried out in surprise and ran to him, throwing herself at him with such force that a smaller man would have stumbled.  
  
          “ _Sandor_!” He felt like he’d stumbled. _Sandor_. When had his name ever sounded so mellifluous? He wanted her to say it again, he was sure he’d never heard her say anything so lovely. This couldn’t have been the first time she’d said his name, though. Surely she’d used it before, he’d called her Sansa often enough. _Sandor._  
  
           He held her tight, pulling her up into his arms and threading his fingers through her silky auburn waves. With one arm under her, the other against the back of her head, he bent forward and kissed her deeply. When he pulled away her eyes were reddened and wet, but she was smiling. _Gods_. He bent down and scooped her up, carrying her over to her bed and dropping her onto her back atop the massive pillows, climbing over her. It took immense willpower not to rip her dress off. She kissed him, and kissed him, and he held her, and hugged her, and soon her dress had tumbled to the floor and they were consumed with each other. He kept his lips pressed to hers the whole time to keep her sounds muffled, not quite having the heart to cover her mouth with his hand or turn her around so her face would be buried in the pillows.  
  
          When he finished, they were both breathless and panting, and he sank down on top of her, pressing his face to her neck tenderly and taking care not to actually let his full weight rest on her. She wrapped her arms around his back and closed her eyes, “I missed you,” she whispered against him.  
  
          He had missed her, too. “I’m here, little bird,” he rasped. He let himself slip out of her and rolled to one side, pulling her into him and burying his face in her hair. His heart ached, and he knew he would have to leave her soon, that he only had precious few hours with her. Why was it suddenly so difficult for him to be away from her? Her presence hadn’t mattered a wink to him at King’s Landing. A lot had changed since then, but when had it started?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you all so much for the comments, kudos, and feedback.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which four months pass very quickly_

          Sansa woke to find Sandor gone, and her heart sank a little. She hadn’t even felt him leave. He hadn’t even bothered to let her know. And she was still _naked_ , she realized with a start, yanking the blankets tightly around her despite knowing she was alone. Clutching the blanket over her, she crawled to the edge of the bed, reaching down to grab her slip and hurriedly pulling it on. She was still slick between her legs, and the stickiness made her wrinkle her nose. She would have to find a washcloth. For all the longing she felt during the act, for the oddly satisfying feeling afterwards, it certainly was _messier_ than she ever imagined. _Such is life_ , she thought, walking to the water basin, _there are no real songs_.  
  
          When she had cleaned herself up a bit, brushed her hair, and dressed, she decided to go out. Perhaps she would see Sandor. As she walked through the hallways, her fingers dragged along the smooth, cool stone walls. Sandstone pillars overlooked a small courtyard and she followed a narrow staircase down to the ground level, eyes searching. When she left the main entry that opened up into the front gardens, she saw a few guards posted at the walls but none were her Hound. _Where is he? What sort of guards do not stand watch?_   She didn’t have the gall to ask anyone where he might be, and even if she did, there was no guarantee she would be understood.  
  
          A bit disappointed, she decided to take the path around the back of the estate, ambling through the orchard. A group of serving girls sat washing clothes. Her first instinct was to keep walking; a lady should not spend her time talking with serving girls. _You are no different than they are, now. You are no lady here._ One of the serving girls whispered something to another, pointing discreetly at Sansa, making her cheeks flush. The serving girls smiled and, a bit uneasily, Sansa approached.  
  
          “Hello…” she began.  
  
          One of the girls tilted her head to the side, “Heh-llo” she said slowly.  
  
          Sansa glanced around self-consciously, “Are you…What are you doing?” she asked, dumbly.  
  
          One of the girls said something in a foreign tongue, while the girl who had spoken before giggled, “Wote-ahy dooeyg” she mimicked.  
  
          Sansa realized suddenly, “Do you speak the Common Tongue?” She already knew the answer. The girl grinned stupidly and shook her head, and Sansa felt unduly annoyed at her for it. “Oh.” She stood there for a moment, but could think of nothing to say or do. “Goodbye,” she said hastily, only as a formality, before she continued her walk, leaving the girls. _Leave the dumb girls to wash their rags_ she thought, bitterly, though she felt a bit guilty, knowing she was being unreasonably. She quickly became bored of wandering through the orchard, and after looking around the mansion without finding much of interest, she retreated to her room. She would have to sleep another day away.  
  
          When she looked out her window, she could see guards returning from beyond the estate walls. One looked like it could be Sandor, he seemed to be the right size, but too far for Sansa to be sure. _Look up. Look up here._ He never did, and soon he disappeared from her sight. Sighing, she looked up at the clouds. They were wispy today, not the big fluffy kind that were good for making up pictures. _Nothing is right, here_.

 

          The next day, she was able to find embroidery materials, a small victory as it would allow her to occupy her time with something other than sleeping or walking aimlessly…something other than waiting for Sandor. Once, she had passed him, and just as it had been at King’s Landing he barely acknowledged her, just a polite, faint nod.  
  
          Another day, weeks later, she decided to try accompanying some of the servants as they went on an errand run outside of the walls. It had not gone as she hoped. The bazaars were not as lovely as she remembered, and everything smelled strongly of fish. She wasn’t sure how she missed it before, or how she’d missed all the uneven pathways that were littered in puddles of muddy water. It was far from the leisurely walk she had expected. The servants moved so quickly, allowing no time to be wasted looking at unnecessary things, rendering it to be a very boring outing. As supplies piled up, they had Sansa carry things. She struggled the whole way on the uneven cobblestones, with arms that were not used to such work. The whole time she worried she would stumble and send supplies flying. _You are absolutely useless_. After the third time, she decided to stop coming along.  
  
          For the first month, she forced herself to eat dinner with the servants, just for the company of other human beings. She did not speak much so that nobody would ask questions, and conversation proved to be dull when only a handful of people spoke the Common Tongue. When they realized she didn’t speak much, they dropped the Common Tongue altogether and Sansa began to feel like she was growing invisible. Soon, she started to take her meals in her room rather than be a ghost.  
  
          Her days she spent staring wistfully out of the window, looking out over the city and letting her mind wander. She embroidered birds, and flowers, and other pretty things to busy her hands and distract her mind. She hoped Sandor might pass under the window, might look her way, but he never did. The guards’ quarters were on the other end of the estate, and so he was rarely seen when he retired for the night. Sandor…Sandor was too good at his job, and too good at hiding his feelings. He was inscrutable.  
  
          Logic told her he cared for her, at least some, but her heart pained her every time he didn’t glance her way. Every night she spent without having a visit from him, she felt more alone. She was alone in an unfamiliar land where people spoke in unfamiliar tongues, and she had no guards to protect her. Her sleep was troubled, and when it wasn’t she found herself desperate to not wake. _How long has it been since I’ve seen him?_ She’d lost track. _A week? Three?_ Only when he was alone with her would he show her any affection, and the longer his job dragged on the more distracted he seemed, and the time they spent together felt like no time at all. Four more months, and the story remained much the same. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on out, time might jump a little (or a lot), in the interest of skipping over a lot of boring nothings. I'm trying to write this as a collection of 'major events' from their life (in this make-believe world), rather than a play-by-play of every moment. Hopefully this format won't be too hard to follow, and if it doesn't read well let me know~


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sandor is injured_

          One evening, there was a commotion downstairs that Sansa could hear all the way up in her little room. When she went downstairs to see the source, she almost screamed out loud. Sandor and two other guards had returned, covered in blood, and there were servants scrambling in all directions, removing armor, throwing water on the floors to keep the blood from staining, checking for wounds. One of the men collapsed, and five servants carried him to the maester’s chambers. Sandor walked, slumping, supporting the weight of the second man. He didn’t even see her.  
  
           “Where are they going? Is he all right? What _happened_?” Sansa asked frantically to the swirl of people, but it was as useful as talking to a mirror. It was one of the whores that finally replied, a girl who was very young for her occupation, at least by the standards of Westeros. She was petite and curved, and had a mysterious air of being wise beyond her years.  
  
          She took Sansa’s hand and led her to the maester’s, “Johanna, you’re worried about your brother. This way.”  
  
           “What happened?”  
  
          The girl shook her head, “I don’t know for certain, only what the servants were saying. One of the men Dhraxis was after, he orders his guards to take care of the men, you must know, those who loot ships, the thief which killed his men and stole many valuable things. …As a merchant, this cannot go unpunished, so of course he sends his best three to send a message.” She spoke the Common Tongue well. Sansa didn’t know when she had come into the merchant’s home, but she hoped she would stay for a while, even if she was a whore.  
  
           “But…I don’t understand, how could one man do all this?” When the girl answered, she realized it was a stupid question.  
  
           “One man who knows he has enemies does not go anywhere alone, if he is smart. When the gold he pays with is not his own, he does not worry about the cost of protection. Jhara- the serving girl who twists her hair- was saying they were attacked by one hundred men with spears, but that one has an imagination.” The whore turned to Sansa and clasped her hands over hers, “I know you are scared for your brother. But they would not have come back if they lost the fight. You understand?”  
  
          Sansa nodded, “Yes.”  
  
           “Do not weep for him when you see him, yes?  You must show a wounded man that his strength is not lost, by being strong for him…if you weep, you only confirm it. You see?” Sansa nodded again, pressing her lips together. The whore knocked on the door, and the maester answered in a language Sansa did not understand. “This is Nina, I am bringing Johanna- sister of the burned one.” _Nina_ , Sansa repeated in her mind, committing it to memory. _Her name is Nina._  
  
           “Come in,” came the muffled reply, adjusting to the Common Tongue accordingly; it was not uncommon for maesters to speak many languages.  
  
          Nina pushed open the door and Sansa braced herself. One of the men was lying still on the ground, unwashed, and the maester was over by Sandor and the other man. There were two young boys that looked nearly identical with dark hair and even darker skin, pouring water and washing away blood so the maester could see the source of the wounds. He was wrapping each individually, trying to stop the flow of blood before he took the time to treat each wound. It was then Sansa realized that the man lying on the ground was dead. She was still holding Nina’s hand.  
  
          She released her grip, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…”  
  
          Nina took her hand, “I have nowhere to be.” Sansa nodded gratefully. It was nice to have a friend.  
  
          Sandor had been wrapped around the middle, close to his chest, with a cloth that was now soaked red. His arm had also been wrapped, and the two boys were insisting he lie down on one of the sickbeds they had prepared, grabbing his hand and trying to pull him. Sandor did not budge, he leaned back against the wall. She hesitated.  
  
          Nina gave Sansa a nudge and whispered, “Go to him. He is glad to see you, he is angry you must see him hurt.” Sansa wished she was that wise. Then, she wondered if the girl was truly wise, or perhaps just a very good liar. _How should she know he is glad, when I do not?_  She squeezed Nina’s hand and walked over to him, kneeling beside him. She released Nina to take Sandor’s hand.  
  
          His lips twitched, “Little bird,” he rasped, giving her hand a squeeze. Then he gave a tired, gruff laugh, “I’m all right, little bird, don’t look so grim.”  
  
           “You should lie down.”  
  
           “I’m fine.”  
  
           “Sandor, _please_. Listen to the maester.”  
  
          He still hadn’t gotten used to the sound of his name from her lips. It wasn’t fair that she had that power over him, she must know it, too. He gave her a sharp look but still, she had won. Grimacing, he pushed himself from the wall and stumbled to the edge of the sickbed, dropping himself on it. By now the other man had been moved to his sickbed as well, and the maester was having the boys fetch various ingredients, including needle and silk for stitching. Each boy was assigned a man, each man was given milk of the poppy, and then each boy began to peel of the bandages one at a time to stich up each wound. Soon, Sandor had to lie down, or else he would have fallen.  
  
          A fire was started, and metal was heated to burn the flesh of larger wounds. “I warn you, maester, that fucking flame bloody well better stay away from me.”   
  
          One of the young boys who evidently did not speak the Common Tongue, approached, and Sandor smacked him so hard he fell to the ground, causing the heated metal to clatter on the stone. The maester raised a brow and gave Sandor more milk of the poppy as the boy scrambled up, “That is a bad chest wound. It may fester. The air is moist here. Not favorable conditions for such a wound.”  
  
          “Let it fester, then. Bugger you and your fire. Bugger your chains if you can’t fix a fucking cut without burning it off.” He took the second cup of milk of poppy, some white beads of liquid catching in his wiry beard. The maester took the empty cup, and Sandor lay back on the bed. His grip on Sansa’s hand slackened a bit.  
  
          The maester spoke to her. “He will be sleeping soon. His head will be foggy. You should go to your room, you do not want to watch the stitching. When he is well, you will see him.”  
  
           “He… _will_ be well though,” said Sansa, half asking the maester and half telling herself.  
  
          The maester nodded, “He will be well.”  
  
          Sansa gave his hand one last squeeze, and rose. Sandor grunted something inaudible. Nina came to her and linked her arm with hers, taking her back up to her room. When the door was closed, Sansa wept, and Nina patted her back patiently. “You are very strong. Your brother has kept you safe. It is not easy to see him hurt,” she praised softly.  
  
           “Thank you,” Sansa sniffed. Then, after an hour, Sansa forced herself to smile, “Thank you,” she said again, “You were very kind. I’ll be fine, though, I think I’m going to rest.” They hugged, and Nina parted.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sandor has another outburst_

          Another three weeks came and went, and so did Sansa’s moonblood. Sandor’s wounds stopped oozing and finally began to scar over. The other soldier had been stripped of his armor, and humbly accepted a job working in the kitchens, now that his limp rendered him unable to fight. Sansa had been able to see Sandor only briefly, and only once had he come to her room. They had just stayed in bed and held each other for the short few minutes they had in private, then he had to leave again. Sansa was hurting, Sandor knew, but he was kept busy at all hours despite his wounds.  
  
          _“If you cannot fight, you cannot stay. This is not an inn,”_ the merchant had told him. He didn’t have a choice. By the time he was allowed sleep, if he wasn’t working the night, he was exhausted and could barely make it to his own bed. He felt for Sansa, who had even stopped going outside to walk in the gardens, but he was good at his work, and he liked that it didn’t involve standing around doing nothing most of the time like he had in King’s Landing. He felt useful. With two men out of commission, Sandor and the other guards had to make up for them until replacements could be found.  
  
          At last, two men were found. Once they were officially hired and fitted in armor, Sandor had his chance. He knocked on her door. He had seen so little of her that he began to wonder if he might knock and find one day that she had disappeared.  
  
          There was a long pause before she answered, “Come in,” he heard her say, her voice more muffled than usual. When he stepped inside, he saw that she had been crying, and his heart sank a bit. He locked the door and knelt beside her seat at the window and took her hand, “Sansa…”  
  
           “Hello. I’m fine. I’ve just been… staring out of the window for too long…It’s very sunny.” she said stiffly.  
  
           “Look at me, little bird,” he said, and she turned her head to him, but her eyes still looked away. He didn’t know what to do, so he just hugged her. “Tell me,” he muttered. She shook her head. He sighed tiredly, “I can’t do anything if I don’t bloody know what’s wrong.”  
  
           “You can’t do anything anyway.” She could be so fucking _difficult._ He didn’t have the patience.  
  
           “ _Tell_ me!” he growled.  
  
           “Nothing.”  
  
           “Seven Hells, Sansa-“  
  
           “-I just don’t want to be here.”  
  
          He sighed, trying to level with her, “Sansa, I-“  
  
           “-I know. I know there’s nothing you can do about it. But I’m miserable, and I can’t stand it here. You’ve been…very good to me, and I’m grateful, but I don’t want to be here. That’s why I’m upset. That’s all. …Please don’t worry yourself.”  
  
          He struggled to find the words. He was horrible at talk. “We bloody well have to. What did you expect? There’s nowhere else.”  
  
          It was the wrong thing to say.  
  
          She pulled away from him, “I _know_ there’s nowhere else. I _know._ I want to go home more than anything, but I don’t even _have_ a home to go to, or a family, or _anyone_. I never _see_ you. And you- you’re perfectly fine, you…you get to do what you love, and you’re the only one I know on this stupid island and I just want to go _back_ ,” she said angrily.  
  
           “I bloody took you here to keep you safe, you agreed to it, no one said it was going to be easy-“ he was getting angry, impatient.  
  
           “If you won’t take me back, I will find someone who will.”  
  
          He stood, “What are you thinking, girl? That you’ll run out there on your own? And find a ship to Westeros on your own, and find a home in Westeros where people won’t be looking to sell you back to the Lannisters?”  
  
           “I am a _Stark_. There are plenty of people who would help me, _ser_.”  
  
          He clenched his jaw, he knew she did that on purpose, but it never stopped bothering him. It was no longer an ingrained formality, it had become an intentional insult, “That’s what I am? A _ser_ to you, now?”  
  
           “I never see you anymore, all you want to do is to play the Hound to your new master! What should you expect to be?”  
  
          _That_ hurt. “I don’t _want_ to, but I _have_ to. And I do it for _you_ ,” he snarled, fighting the urge to grab her and shake her. _Little wolf bitch_.  
  
           “You  _do_ want to. You’re angry, all the time. You _enjoy_ killing…everything you love is ugly and horrible. You don’t love anything beautiful. You love killing people, and you love scaring people, and you love drinking…and I love beautiful things like…happiness, and…lemon cakes, and pretty dresses, and songs.”  
  
           “That is not true, girl, and you know it.”  
  
           “It _is_ true,” she held herself up tall, face still and chin up as tears went down her face, _solemn as a Stark._  
  
          He felt like he was falling. He would rather be stabbed than this- it was a stupid argument, he didn’t even know how it started, and he was trying his damndest but she was having none of it. He reached out for her but she stood and stepped back, “Don’t touch me.”  
  
          He raised his hands in frustration, “Seven Hells, girl- what do you want me to do? You find a way to be miserable no matter what! I don’t love awful things, and you’re acting the child,” he fumed.  
  
           “Yes you _do_. I am a woman, do not call me child. If you didn’t love doing those things, then you wouldn’t do them, you told me yourself you loved killing. You said it was the sweetest thing, and I’ve no family left because of men who think that way, men like you. And you’re happy to be here, you’re happy to not see me, and to let me spend days wondering if you’ve even made it back here alive!”  
  
           “ _I’m_  not happy to be in this city that stinks of shit, killing all day with men who don’t speak the Common fucking Tongue,” He _did_  enjoy killing, but he forced himself to keep it one-sided, “…but I bloody do it for you. I do it for you, because- Gods be damned, you little…You’re beautiful, and because I love _you_ , and _that’s bloody why I bloody fucking do it_ , not because I love awful things. And someday, years from now, when you’ve got yourself a proper fucking husband and you live in a big fucking castle and you’ve a family of your own, you’ll be glad for it. You’ll be glad for every miserable buggering moment that you spent here, and you’ll be glad I was here to do all the awful things _for_ you, because it means you’ll fucking still be bloody _alive_ to enjoy all your beautiful buggering things!” _Gods know you couldn’t do it on your own._ In his rage, the words just came tumbling out, before he had a chance to think about what he was saying or stop himself.  
  
          She was so still she might have been a statue, were it not for her quivering chin and the tears silently leaking out of her eyes. Unable to touch her for fear of being rejected again, he turned away. His chest hurt terribly, like he was fighting to swallow a rock. _Stop it_ he yelled at himself. Without warning he punched the heavy closet doors in front of him with such force that the wood splintered and one of the hinges popped off, making the door fall crooked and Sansa cry out. The splintered oak cut open his hand and made his knuckles throb and it felt _good_.  
  
          He set the palm of his hand on the table by the window, leaning heavily against it. He wanted to leave. They were both angry, and neither of them would get anywhere if they continued on like this. It was better if he left, but he knew his eyes were wet, too, so he stayed where nobody else could see, and kept his back turned to Sansa, closing his eyes and trying to cool his blood.  
  
          Sansa felt just as numb and awful.She wanted to apologize but she was still upset and far too proud, so she just sank down onto the bed and buried her face in her hands. _Why must you always be such a child? You’re so stupid, and weak, it’s no wonder Joffrey beat you and the Lannisters married you off to the imp, and it’s no wonder everyone hates you for it, no wonder you have no home._ She knew it wasn’t all true, but she felt that way at that moment. She knew she had started it, that she was being awful and selfish. Here, she wasn’t in fear of being beaten or raped or tortured like she had been in King’s Landing, the only thing she worried about was Sandor, and her own boredom. But Sandor was not free of blame, his words had been cruel, too. _He wouldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t._ She regretted everything.  
  
          An hour passed, and evening fell, and she heard a knock at the door. She turned quickly and went to it, quickly wiping her eyes on her sleeve, unladylike as it was. Sandor stayed where he was, but straightened up a bit. “Who is it?” she asked. A servant answered in a foreign tongue and she realized it must be about time for supper. She pulled up the latch and opened the door, and sure enough, two servants entered with plates of food. As usual, it was more than Sansa could eat alone. There were roasted vegetables and battered spiced crabs with their soft shells still on, surrounded by cut lemons from the orchard, all of it smothered in butter. There was a plate of figs, dates, sour cherries, and speckled fruit, and a tray with cheeses, herbed bread, and crumble pastries. Sansa wanted none of it, but she smiled and thanked them graciously as they brought the plates to the table and checked to make sure the pitchers of wine and water were full. They left bowing and thankfully did not notice the broken closet. Sandor turned to go with them.  
  
          Sansa forced herself to speak up, “Wait.” She said, more feebly than she intended.  
  
          He stopped with his hand on the door, “What is it?” he rasped.  
  
           “Just…you can stay. If…you don’t have to leave.”  
  
          He shook his head, “I’ll be fine, little bird.”  
  
           _Why must he always be so difficult?_ “No, please, I…I would like you to stay. Please stay.” She was still upset, but she would rather him be here, angry with her, than not at all, for gods know how long before he showed up again.  
  
          She saw him lean his head back and knew he was tired, knew he was weighing his options, and the probability that if he stayed the night would continue to spiral downward. She prayed he would stay…could the gods hear her so far from home? _Please don’t let him leave me alone_.  
  
          He closed the door slowly, and dropped the latch. “Thank you,” she said softly.  
  
          He grunted. “You going to eat?”  
  
           “I’m not hungry.”  
  
           “You should eat.”  
  
          She sighed, and went to sit at the table. The Hound stood where he was, “You can…pull that chair, over here…and join me?” He wouldn’t meet her eye, but he took the chair by the vanity and set it at the other end of the table. “Please, help yourself,” Sansa added, knowing she sounded stiff. He helped himself to the wine, but it wasn’t until she managed to nibble at one of the crumble pastries that he ate anything himself. Neither of them ate much, and soon they found themselves just sitting in strained silence. _You were the one who started it, so you must end it_ Sansa told herself, hearing the voice of her Septa.  
  
           “You...hurt your hand,” she said stupidly. _What is wrong with you?_  
  
           “It’s fine.”  
  
          She stood up and went to him, tentatively reaching out to touch his arm. He looked away but did not stop her. She slid down to his wrist and pulled his hand up to see the damage. It was swollen and cut up, full of splinters. She picked out what splinters she could from his flayed knuckles and when she was finished, she soaked her washcloth in water, squeezed it out and lay it over them to ease the swelling. He winced but never pulled away. Then, she led him over to the bed to sit, where she could sit with him, and lay his hand over her lap. He still would not look at her. Finally, she brought her hand to his cheek, laying on the veiny ridges of his scars, and turned his head to her. Still hurt and angry, he turned away again after their eyes met. She felt bad enough as it was.  
  
           Frustrated to tears, and unable to speak what she felt, she pleaded with him, “Please look at me. Please.” He did so reluctantly, his mouth twisting. “Sandor, please- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”  
  
           “Aye, you did. You don’t have to apologize for it.”  
  
           “I _want_ to apologize.” She took the edges of his hands in hers, holding them, “I just…miss my home and…it’s not your fault. I’m just…lonely, and selfish, and you’re right…but, I worry about you, all day, and I have…nothing else to do but to worry. I only have you.”  
  
          When he didn’t reply, she continued, his silence making her more desperate. “You’re all I have, and I don’t want to lose you. And I don’t want anyone else. I don’t want to have a _family_ , in some castle, with someone else, with you gone. You still think of me as a child, as if I still dream of beautiful knights riding dragons and…and all of that, but I’m _not_ , I don’t, and I just want to be with you and I am sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, and I’m sorry I said you love awful things even though _I_ feel like an awful thing right now, and-“ she would have kept going but he stopped her without a word, hugging her to his chest.  
  
           She sobbed into him, relieved and overwhelmed, and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck as he rubbed her shaking back patiently until her breathing evened out and her whimpering subsided. He thought for a long while before he spoke.  
  
           “Are you awake?” he asked, unable to tell with her face in his chest. She nodded. “All right, little bird. If you want to go back, I’ll bring you back. Next time, tell it to me straight. I only have two hands.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The journey back_

           Sandor had resigned. He took the coin he was owed and returned the merchant's armor, happily retrieving his old dented metal from storage. From Lorath, they boarded a ship bound for Braavos. Sandor and his little bird had made amends, but she was still a bit wounded, so he thought it best just to do as she’d asked and not push things. They didn't speak much, and the journey back to Westeros was much like their journey from it. From Braavos, they sailed to Widow’s Watch, and from Widow’s Watch to Ramsgate. Once in Ramsgate, they caught a ride on the back of a cart, much to Sansa’s dismay. She smoothed her skirts out and pulled her cloak tightly around her, trying to look dignified as possible while sitting on stacks of hay and being tossed about by the wobbly cart.  
  
            “Where to?” he asked gruffly.  
  
            “What do you mean?” She had been so busy trying to keep herself warm that she hadn’t been paying much attention.  
  
            “You’ve not told me.” His voice was slightly muffled with a thick cowl pulled around his head to shield the worst of his scars.  
  
            “Oh.” Sansa was surprised. She thought the answer would have been obvious. “Winterfell.” She was tired of running away, not knowing what was to come. She wanted to return to the place that had been her home. She still wasn't sure if she was ready, but she wasn't sure she ever truly would be...now seemed as good a time as ever.  
  
            If the Hound had any complaints, he did not voice them. He nodded slowly, “Hm.”  
  
            “You’re…are you…all right with that?”  
  
           He didn’t hesitate. “They speak the Common Tongue in your Winterfell?”  
  
            “I…Of course.”  
  
            “As good a bloody place as any, then.” Sansa managed a slight smile, but it was hard to truly laugh at anything he said when he delivered lines so starkly. She was warming up to his humor, she supposed.

 

  
          The two of them froze all the way back to the outskirts of White Harbor. It was an arduous journey, and it would have been a lie to say that the warm wools they wore when they arrived had been acquired by savory means. “ _Either they will freeze or we will. Take your bloody pick,”_ Sandor had told Sansa, through clenched teeth.

  
            Sandor pulled his woolen cowl over his face, looming beside Sansa as they walked. The air felt colder than it had been six months ago, wickedly nipping at any exposed skin. Their horses, Stranger and Maiden, were long gone, even though Sansa half expected them to be standing there, right where they’d been left. On foot they trudged North, past the walls of White Harbor, while Sansa picked away bits of straw from her hair and clothes.  
  
           Sandor acquired a small boat using the same means as he had acquired their wools. He held a metal hand out for Sansa to take, helping her into the wobbly little thing. He untied them, and got in after her, pushing off the bottom with the oar rather than rowing until they got a bit farther out. The waters of the White Knife were still and kind, and they made their way north with relative ease against the soft current until the water froze near solid, forcing Sandor to break through the ice with the oar every few yards. After that, travel became steadily more miserable. When Sansa and the Hound were both well-speckled with stray bits of flying ice and water droplets, it was the Hound who pushed the boat to shore.  
  
            “Out you go now, little bird,” he said, kneeling down to hold to boat against the bank, letting Sansa climb over, using his arm for support.  
  
            “What…what are we to do now?”  
  
            “We walk. And you’d best fucking hope your castle gates aren’t closed to you when we get there.”  
  
            Sansa blinked. She hadn’t even thought about that. _Stupid girl!_ She cried at herself, heart sinking. She knew nothing of Winterfell anymore- she only heard it had been  sacked, maybe burned…the castle might not even be standing. Because of her, they might be walking in the cold to their deaths. Nervous fingers reached into the folds of her cloak and grasped a small, bent hairpin, turning it over again and again. _Lady Luck_. She thought to herself. She hoped her luck had not worn out, not yet.  
  
            Just then, they heard the crunching of feet on frozen grass, and the creaking wheels of a cart. They turned to see the man whose cart had been filled with hay, the man they’d ridden with to White Harbor. Somehow, they’d passed him on the road. Sansa looked to Sandor, who was looking intently at the man. He raised a hand in greeting. The man on the cart pulled his horse to a stop.  
  
            “You two again- where you headed so far norf?”  
  
            “Could ask the same of you,” replied the Hound, avoiding an answer.  
  
            The man jerked his thumb back to point at his cart, “Got a deal wif some folks in White Harbor. Trade at a good price. Bringing provisions up to The Wall- you headin’ up that way? Could take you wif us,” he said, referring to the horse and himself.  
  
            Sansa got uneasy looking at Sandor, who was practically licking his lips, “Might be. What’ll it cost?”  
  
            “No cost, ser. Nice to have the company. If you had coin t’ spare I wouldn’t say no, but times is tough, that I know.”  
  
            The Hound nodded slowly, “Aye, all right, then.”  
  
            The man made sure the horse was steady, and climbed down off his seat, hobbling around to the back of the cart to pull it open. He wheezed, and the snow around him splattered red, for as soon as he’d turned his back the Hound had walked up behind him and thrust his sword straight through. Sansa’s hand went to her mouth as the Hound drew his steaming sword from the man, letting him fall to the ground. He grasped the edge of the cart and looked in at the meager provisions, mostly salted goods, onions, garlic, and potatoes, flour, and some brown apples. He kept the apples to feed the horse, but tossed over the sacks of flour. When he turned, his little bird was standing just as she had been.  
  
            “He didn’t ask us to pay. He…why must you always-“  
  
            “He did ask, just not straight. It’s done. Now we’ve a horse and food. His damn fault for traveling alone.”  
  
            “ _You’re_ traveling alone.” After all, she didn’t count…she was surely a burden, if anything.  
  
            “Aye. So be it on our heads if I don’t kill someone before they kill me- or you.” It was the sort of off-brand sentiment the Hound was wont to give. Phrased differently, it could have been made to be romantic, even, were he a different man who bothered to candy-coat his words. “You want to sit in the cart or up front?”  
  
            Sansa tore her eyes from the red snow, looking at the back of the cart whose floor was littered with rolling apples, spilt flour, stains, and rolling beads of salt. “Up front.”  
  
            Sandor nodded, pulling the thick black cloak from the dead man and tossing it in the back of the cart. He left the body where it had fallen, and went to sit where the dead man had been, grabbing the reins and jerking his head at the place beside him. Sansa followed, and he took her hand to help her up. The cart would slow them down, but Winterfell should not be too far, and it would be good for them to have plenty of food, not to mention a possible cover if it turned out the castle was not empty. Sansa sat beside him and smoothed her skirts, ladylike as ever, as the cart began to lumber forward. When they were going steadily, he switched the reins to one hand, and pulled his other arm around her without a word.  
  
            Sansa couldn’t help but smile from under the hood of her cloak, leaning against him. He could frustrate her to no end and drive her to tears, but she'd chosen him, for and despite all his faults.   _And he chose you, despite yours_ she thought to herself, for she had not forgotten the way he'd spoken to her when she had first arrived in King's Landing. _  
_


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A Stark at Winterfell once more_

          When they arrived the skies had been grey and lifeless, a fitting backdrop for the burned castle of Winterfell. The castle stood as a poor imitation of what it once was, a crudely painted picture by an artist with only a vague idea of what Winterfell should look like. Sansa stood at the gates, her face wind-whipped and inscrutable. She had prepared well- they had picked up a few poor who could not fight along the way who were willing to work for the promise of shelter and safety …neither the Hound nor Sansa knew if what they promised was possible, but it was their best chance with no gold to hire proper workers, and Sansa’s best chance of avoiding seeing more people die. It turned out Sandor’s fearsomeness and Sansa’s sweet words worked to create a very convincing team.

          At Winterfell and outside in Winter Town, they found more people. The castle itself was devoid of any lords or members, leaving it home to thieves, squatters, and fugitives. All of them had been offered their lives, in exchange for their service. The first answer they received was a man spitting at their boots. Sandor offered a rebuttal in the form of a sword through the gut, and after that not one of the others dared refuse the Hound, or question his seriousness. Here in Westeros, he was a fearsome legend once more.

           Spring water spouted from the ruined walls of the castle, making the ground thick with mud like a bog. Despite this, Sansa had walked through the oozing ground, losing both her slippers in the process. Sandor dutifully retrieved them, and had some of the men start laying down wood to walk on. When he was able to follow Sansa without fear of sinking, he found her in the godswood. It seemed to be the only place left eerily untouched by the fire and rubble, so much so that it made Sandor extremely uncomfortable. 

          Sansa had dropped to her knees in front of the massive, twisted tree that wept red sap. She seemed to have forgotten that she was supposed to be disgusted by the prospect of sitting upon the ground. He walked to her and placed her shoes beside her on the ground.

          “Thank you.”

          He grunted an acknowledgement. He turned away and noticed torn metal links of a chain strewn across the ground, trailing away from the tree, like those that maesters wore. He briefly wondered what they were doing here, discarded and unattached.

          “It’s…it’s empty. Why is there no one here?” It was reasonably good news for them, but it also meant they were on their own. Winterfell did not feel right, deserted and lifeless. Part of her was almost sad…sad for Winterfell, that she had been abandoned. 

          “The men say it’s cursed. Most like it’s waiting to be taken. Some lord likely spread the rumor himself, make sure no one else got to it first.”

          “Oh.” She knew he would scoff if she said her thoughts out loud, but she was not so quick to dismiss such talk. _Perhaps Winterfell is cursed…Bran and Rickon, Theon, mother and father…what good has come to anyone who held Winterfell?_ “Do you… is it safe to stay?”

          “Safe to stay as it is to go. Safer if we get the walls up.”

          Sansa nodded. “Thank you for bringing my shoes,” she repeated. He took it has his dismissal.

          That is where he left her, and that is where she had stayed, all day and every day, for the first week of her return, kneeling in the cold and mud. He dutifully brought her food twice a day, kept a small fire stoked for her. It was no secret the Tully women had…certain tendencies. _The touched Tullies._ He hoped that she was like her mother only in looks, though Catelyn Stark did seem to be the saner of the two sisters, from what he’d heard. Talking to her seemed futile, and though he worried, it wouldn’t do him good to wait for her orders. 

          While he waited for her to come around, Sandor organized the fifty-some-odd men and handful of women, and they began to rebuild, starting with burying all the bodies. He was a fighter, but if she wanted Winterfell, it would be hers, even if it meant trading his sword for a hammer. _Only for her._ _I can damn well be good to her. I can be what she wants, what she will want when… I can make her see._

 

 

          When Sansa was ready, she ventured into the castle. She spent the day inside, and ordered everyone out of it until she was finished, including Sandor. She walked through the dead, ruined halls, every one of them haunted with ghosts from her past. The same ghosts that sat with her by the Heart Tree the past week. She saw Robb and Jon, fighting with wooden swords all the way down the steps. Her father scolded them, but with a smile. She saw Theon laughing, leaning lazily against one of the stone pillars and talking to some new serving girl. She saw Septa Mordane chasing after Arya with a hairbrush, and couldn’t help but laugh. Bran and Rickon sat by the fire, playing with toy soldiers. Her mother watched them while she brushed Sansa’s own long hair.

          When she stepped out into one of the open walkways overlooking a courtyard, she saw Jory Cassel, and Mikken, Farlen and young Palla, Old Nan and Hodor. Gage was hard at work in the empty kitchens, cooking a feast, and letting her sneak a lemon cake. And the wolves…the direwolves, all of them roamed around and howled forlornly, their cries echoing off the walls. They padded along after her through each room. Sansa couldn’t even go into the Great Hall- it was collapsed in- nor the shattered glass garden. 

          The last places Sansa went were to the bedrooms. Every part of her wanted to run away, to go to her family, where her mother would hug her and father would comfort her. _I have no more family._ She reminded herself. _Winterfell isn’t meant to be a shrine. They would want you to be strong. Father would tell you to do what needs to be done_.

          It was with a heavy heart that she went through her old closet, pulling out her old left-behind gowns that seemed so impossibly _tiny_ now. Her dolls, her practiced embroidery with stitches that looked so clumsy to her now. Everything she wanted to keep, she moved to Arya’s bedroom, which had been the smallest. It became storage. All the children’s toys she stored there, _just in case…if they ever come back_ , she thought, though she knew it was silly. Even if anyone else was still alive, Rickon would be the only one still young enough to play with such things, and Theon had killed him and Bran, she’d heard. She even kept all of Arya’s things. Her collections of silly odds and ends, her failed attempts at embroidery. Sansa decided she would keep this room from Sandor, at least for a while…she knew she was being foolishly hopeful, but she needed it right now, she didn’t want another one of his stark lessons. 

          Last, she went to her parent’s room. She opened the closets, and they smelled of home, of mother, and father. She pulled out one of her mother’s dresses, holding it to her face and smelling it. She did the same with one of her father’s old cloaks. Then she took them to the bed and curled up on it, and she wept. She had been so stupid, when she was younger. All she ever wanted was to go south, to marry a prince, to be just like the queen. And her mother…her infinitely wise mother had begged her father not to go. Sansa had been so set on her silly, stupid dreams of a world that never was that she in turn begged them to be allowed to go, and they had. When her father said they must leave King’s Landing, she had begged him to stay. She had gone to the Queen, and betrayed her family, and now she was the only one of them left. She had a castle now, and it served as a constant, haunting reminder of what once was. All of this was her punishment.

          When she had no more tears to cry, she got up, and took on her punishment once more, leaving a bit of herself behind with a heavy sigh. She was as tall now as her mother had been, at least, her dresses should fit, so she tried one on. It fit well. A little loose in some areas and a little tight in others, but for the most part, it fit well. Many of the smallclothes, stockings, and shoes she threw away. Most of her father’s things would be too small for the Hound, but perhaps there were other men who could make use of them. She opened up one of the windows, and found the grounds dark and quiet. She pulled them closed and made her way out of the castle, being very careful on the ruined stairs. Sandor was waiting outside to meet her. She went to the godswood, wrapped in her mother’s furs. Sandor built a small fire, and the two of them slept there. The next morning, she sent the men in to start cleaning up, giving away her father’s clothes, and Robb’s, and Jon’s. The rest were too small for anyone.

          They began to rebuild from the bottom up. Sandor all the while trying to ignore the gnawing fear in the back of his mind that if the castle did get rebuilt, Sansa might opt for a man of higher birth, someone other than himself. Surprisingly, it did not take long before much of the castle was at least livable again. They had cleared away all the rubble, and started to erect new walls where old ones had fallen, successfully containing the hot spring water within them. The gates to the castle were fortified and repaired to ensure everyone’s safety, in case word got out of their presence. As it turned out, the knowledge that all of them would surely die should the wrong people hear of Sansa’s presence served as a fantastic motivation for sealed lips and reliable workers. 

          Over the weeks, any travelers who tried to come through were met with Sansa’s sweet words, then given a choice by the Hound: stay and help, be given food and safety, and swear allegiance to the house Stark, or refuse and die. It was harsh, for sure, but it was the only way to ensure _everyone_ was safe. If anyone was caught trying to escape or otherwise harm the work efforts, the workers would bring them to the Hound, where justice would be served, fair and square. It was uncommon that anyone refused, though, as most who ventured this far north would gladly accept a place willing to offer safety and rations. When they were confident enough in their defenses, anyone who wished to leave was allowed to do so. Many chose to stay.

 

 

          It was with fantastic speed that the castle was rebuilt, every piece slowly resurrected, even the greenhouse, which had been tilled and seeded. They had acquired quite a large group, and also lost quite a few. It was not the Winterfell it once was, the one that Sansa had once known, but it was still Winterfell, and still home, and it was growing ever stronger. To Sansa, it seemed as if the very walls of the castle fed off of the presence of the people, and the more people there were, the more alive every acre became, the more it thrived, the stronger it seemed. Sandor and Sansa did not have much time for each other during that year, but they made time when they could, and when they couldn’t they were both kept busy, so neither was left wanting. If any workers proved themselves to be particularly skillful in a certain area, they were given an official job and title. This was how they found farmers, their cooks, masons, and a temporary glazier. Everyone had their place. 

          At long last, they were not needed every second of the day, and everyone was able to take time to take care of themselves, without having to worry about the castle, or whether they would have food, or be attacked. Winterfell took care of those who took care of her, and with her walls now strong, living was much easier.

          Sansa became Lady Stark of Winterfell. She slept in the bedroom that had once belonged to her parents, and wore many of the clothes that had once belonged to her mother. The Hound remained loyally by her side, sharing her home and all the burdens of her punishment. Sansa began to rule, and she ruled well, and it seemed the people loved her and, perhaps most of all, they trusted her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another big time jump, and a lot of exposition. More to follow. Hopefully the jumps and vague timelines won't be too distracting, since I'm shoving this whole story in one post, rather than making it a series because I didn't even think of that and now I'm too lazy to change it (hindsight 20/20?) teehee.
> 
> Also, side note, things get fluffier from here (and not just because of the snow in Winterfell- BADUM CHHHH). This is also the point where I totally veer away from the books. I generally write with the books open beside me especially when I'm writing dialogue to keep me focused. The feedback I've been given regarding that has been crazy nice, and like I said before, I'm tickled. Especially because, more than anything, I started writing this fic for myself, just as an exploration of Sandor and Sansa as I interpreted their characters and their relationship, when put in different circumstances. Not to rewrite the whole ASOIAF series events. So, hopefully that explains why, in case it DOES throw anyone, I'm being vague, glossing over certain things, leaving out things altogether, and so on. 
> 
> As always, thank you SO much for the feedback & comments. I'm having a blast, glad you are, too.


	32. Chapter 32

          For the first time, it snowed. Really snowed. The flakes started falling in the early evening, and continued heavily through until the next morning. They woke to find everything covered in a thick blanket of white. Sansa had rushed to the window with an excited little cry and Sandor had to rush after her and cover her with the blanket so no one would see her so exposed. She didn’t even care, no one was looking anyway. She threw a dress on over her slip and yanked her boots on quickly then, remembering her position, straightened up and walked out of the room at a restrained pace that made Sandor roll his eyes, though not without amusement.   
  
          When she finally sank her foot into the snow, she let out an audible sigh. Sansa walked right out into the open leaving a trail of prints behind her and stood in the hazy sun with her eyes closed, letting the falling flakes kiss her nose, and cheeks, and eyelashes, the warmth of her skin turning them to water droplets. At the sound of a whistle, her eyes fluttered open and she turned to the source; Sandor was leaning on the ledge of the bedroom window. She smiled up at him, and he nodded.  
  
           “You want your cloak?” he called down gruffly, his voice still raw from sleep.  
  
          Sansa shook her head, “Come down!”  
  
          Sandor shook his head, “I’ll be here when you need to thaw out, pretty bird.” It was early, and he was tired, and she was beautiful. He would rather stay in the warmth of their room, than venture out after her in the cold. He did not want to make conversation with her, not now, for it was only a distraction. He just wanted to look at her, to watch her, to take her in. He still had not quite gotten used to sharing a bed with her, a true home with her, and he was wary of becoming too comfortable. Their minds had been exceedingly occupied for so long, they seemed to have become temporarily absent from each other until only recently.   
  
          Only recently had they shared a bed, after so long, for a purpose other than sleeping. Being at Winterfell had changed her, it seemed, as though it had revitalized her, reignited some dying spark within her. Now he felt he had only just scratched the surface of her in the years he knew her at King’s Landing and the time they spend on the run. She was still new, still surprising. She was still his, for now. He wanted to savor her, for fear that might one day change.  
  
          Sansa bent down and began to pack snow in her bare hands, rolling it on the ground, then packing, over and over. She rolled her ball of snow all the way to the gate, and by then her fingers ached with cold, but she had more work to do. She repeated the process, occasionally looking up to see if Sandor was still in the window. He had disappeared and reappeared with a cup of mulled wine, but that was the only time he moved from the window.  When she finished the second ball of snow, she realized it was actually quite a bit heavier than she expected. That was when she remembered her father had always been the one to help stack the snowguards up. Frustrated, but unwilling to give up (especially since she knew Sandor had seen her try and fail to lift the body), she pushed the second ball of snow beside the first.   
  
          With pink fingers she went to roll the last ball of snow, and when it was finished she rolled it up against the rest of the body. Grinning mischievously, she went to go find some stones, and made a quick detour to grab a few used arrows, shot long ago and stuck in the straw-stuffed targets. When she returned, she gave the snowguard closed eyes and an open mouth of stone and stuck the arrows into his snow body. She looked up at Sandor with her hands clasped in front of her and a rather cheeky grin, and he roared with rare laughter.  
  
           “Get back up here, little bird. You’re all red.”  
  
          She was beginning to get cold anyway. When she stepped inside, the snowflakes stuck to her hair and clothes melted away, soaking her through. Her slowly warming hands prickled numbly at the sudden temperature change and her ears ached, but she still would have gladly stayed out for a little while longer. _The snow will still be there when you next go out_ , she told herself, thinking of her mother and Septa Mordane. Sansa had never had an aversion to snow as she had other things. Where she did not play in the dirt or roll around in the grass, she did in the snow. There was a certain purity in it, a white cloak that covered any imperfections. Snow was _clean_.  
  
           When she reached their room, a fire was burning. She knew Sandor had asked it to be made for her sake, since possibly his favorite part about Winterfell was the heated walls and abundance of furs which made building a fire a necessity only on the coldest of days.   
  
          He set his cup on the ledge and beckoned her over. She stopped to pull her boots off, her feet pink underneath and happy to touch the warm stone floor. Then she went to Sandor who cupped her chin and kissed her chapped lips, thumb brushing over her chin. He took her out of her damp, cold clothes and pulled her shivering into bed with him, covering her in furs. He pressed his thumbs into her palms and brought her cold, pink fingers to his lips.   
  
          Each move he made was deliberate, almost calculated. He didn’t speak, just looked at her with hungry grey eyes, the hunger that used to scare her so long ago. He kissed her fingertips, and kissed her arm up to her neck, pulling himself into her. She embraced him as he nuzzled against the crook of her neck, hot breath against her ear. When he pulled back, strands of red reached after his beard as if his whiskers were a horsehair brush. As he kissed lower down her collarbone, her hair released itself, floating back into black. She sighed softly and his lips kissed down to her two stiff pinks, where they lingered, teasing, playing, savoring. Then he shifted his weight and his lips continued their journey along her body. She giggled a bit nervously as he began to kiss down her stomach, which contracted a bit from her own ticklishness.   
  
          It seemed wherever he kissed he left behind little spots of tingling heat that grew and spread until she could no longer feel the cold. One of his hands he rested on her waist, the other on the opposite thigh, fingers kneading gently into the soft flesh. He ignored the involuntary twitches of her skin as his rough jaw trailed steadily down. He kissed her inner thigh, dragging his teeth along the skin, making Sansa whimper softly. He kissed the crease where her thigh met her body, just by her mound, and her highborn manners got the best of her, just for that moment.   
  
          “What…are you doing?” she asked him, looking down at him with mild, suspicious amusement, her brow quirking and her knees coming together slightly, tentatively. It was an ingrained reaction to an unfamiliar action. His eyes flicked up at her briefly. Had he really never done this to her before? He’d wanted to.  
  
          “Shhh” he rumbled, turning down his eyes once more. He did not provide her with a verbal answer as he sank down under the furs and blankets, a hulking, shapeless mass. Steady hands applied light pressure to her knees, opening them outward, before sliding up her thighs to her hips. He pressed his lips to the moist sweetness between her legs.  
  
          Her eyes widened, “Oh!” she gasped, body giving another involuntary twitch that was not one of ticklishness this time.   
  
          He had learned that with her, any new, unfamiliar experience for which there were no written rules to study was met with a certain amount of nervousness. It was not something innate, but something learned, perhaps from one too many bad experiences at King’s Landing, or perhaps sometime before then. He had his own faults- his fear of rejection used to make him hesitate at her nerves- but she would not be let off the hook so easily anymore- she was _his_ catch.  
  
          Soon he had her squirming wantonly underneath him while he held her still at her hips. She rolled her head to the side, pressing her face into the pillows to stifle her sounds, toes curling under the sheets.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I'd try a transition that was more "stream of consciousness" and less exposition-heavy.

          The intimacy they shared seem to come and go in waves. Those waves seemed to be controlled by the tides of change; when Winterfell demanded their full attention, she was given it, and when Winterfell found rest, so they found each other again. For Sansa, it seemed simply returning to the same bed with him each night was enough. It was enough to keep her comfortable, to keep her satisfied, to keep her happy. For Sandor, it was different. As a man, he wanted her with a carnal need. As himself, he wanted to know it was not simply out of necessity that she kept him at her side.  
  
          _So fucking ask her already._  
  
          More than once, he thought to ask for her hand, but each time he beat himself down. _Idiot. Fool._ There were so many reasons not to. For one, he didn’t have the slightest clue how to go about suggesting it, how to ask her…and if he knew anything, he knew she had _expectations_ about such things. No doubt she had filled her head with all manner of fantasy on the matter.  
  
          _Foolish arse.  
  
_           It seemed stupid. _Idiot_. Rarely did highborns marry for love. Most often, marriage was a deal to be struck, something planned in advance in the hopes of certain gains. Most often, the decision was not left up to the partners-to-be. Why should this be any different? _What makes you any fucking different? Any better? She stands to gain nothing from you. You are no lord. Any cunt can wield a sword. With guards she has no need of your protection. She chose you before, but she must see that things are different now._ He was playing in a fool’s game, one which he had no place in the competition. He had no business dabbling in such things.  
  
          Sandor paced in the empty kennels of Winterfell, until he realized he had been doing so, annoying himself. He dropped to sit like a gargoyle, raking his hands through his hair in frustration. His palms covered his face, one side he could feel, the other he only felt slight pressure to indicate its presence. Then he lifted his head. Had he barred the doors? _Yes. Good._ He lowered his head once more. Sansa was no doubt making arrangements for Winterfell, doing the job as good on her own as she would with him there. They’d acquired a maester, no doubt she was well-helped by him with whatever task she was undertaking. She’d bade their glazier farewell, seen him off and no doubt executed everything that was expected of a highborn lady in such a circumstance with absolute flawlessness. _No doubt, no fucking doubt._ She was resilient. She didn’t struggle with such tasks.   
  
          _Stupid fucking Hound. Useless._  
  
          He found himself afraid, though he wouldn’t admit it. Instead, he told himself it was too much work, too much bother to ask her. _What do you care, anyway? A meaningless title. Husband. Wife. Meaningless. Foolish._ He told himself he _didn’t_ care, that it didn’t matter. He told himself anything to avoid the prospect of asking her ever becoming anything more than a passing thought. He told himself anything to avoid ever actually asking her, anything that meant he would have to face the very real, dreadful possibility that he might kneel before her, and she might look down at him with those two round sapphires, and say, “ _No”_  
  
          _There is nothing to ask._  
  
          He let out a frustrated growl, wiping his hand down his face and heaving himself up from the ground. _There is nothing to ask._ He was acting like a whimpering pup, and he was the _Hound_. Out of habit, he flexed his swordhand around the hilt of his blade, as if to steel himself. _Wine_. He would go to the kitchens to get wine from that cook. _Sturdy woman._ That is what he had been doing this whole time; searching for wine. _Knows how to keep her mouth shut._ He wiped the back of his hand shamelessly under his nose, which had been running from the cold. It was the sort of gesture that might make Sansa cringe. It was the sort of gesture that reminded him of who he was, the sort of base action that kept him firmly rooted in his proper place. 


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Sandor doesn't ask, exactly_

          The Great Hall was a poor imitation of what it once was, what it had been when Eddard Stark was Lord of Winterfell. Where walls had not fully been set, thick beams leaned to prop them in place. It was not nearly as lively, not nearly as grand, not nearly as familiar. But it was getting there.  
  
          The cooks had prepared a large meal of herbed chickens, steamed root vegetables, browned heads of garlic, and a leek-and-peas soup. As usual there was fresh bread and plenty of mulled wine to go around. Sansa, Sandor, Maester Redwin, Septa Mariyah, master-at-arms Ser Martyn Andell, and Jorah Hexley, the armorer and blacksmith, all sat in a cluster at one end of the table, while essentially everyone else sat at the other end, or scattered in their own groups at the other tables.  
  
          Sansa was leaning in very close with Septa Mariyah, deep in conversation about something that was clearly meant for their ears alone. Sandor was busying himself with his chicken, and as usual seemed unconcerned and uninterested in whatever the septa was saying. For once, Sansa was glad for it.  
  
           “If you said the vows, then it is recognized as valid by the High Septon _and_ the Council of Faith.”  
  
           “Yes, but- nobody seems to know if he is even _alive_.”  
  
           “That is true. And you say it was not consummated.He is a wanted man…the odds are favorable, my lady, but there is always a chance.”  
  
          Sansa furrowed her brow, thinking. “And what of privacy? Is there no way to keep such a thing…quiet?”  
  
           “Lady Stark, you know as well as I that there are eyes and ears everywhere. If there is any doubt that Winterfell is rising once again, it will be diminished once word gets out that you sought annulment.”  
  
          Sansa opened her mouth to say something else, but she was interrupted by the last of a conversation Ser Martyn and Maester Redwin were having.  
  
           “Hexley’s kids are the only ones in the castle! And the two cook boys- but the hall could use a little more life. We’re a sorry old bunch.”  
  
           “I’ve sent more ravens in the hopes of finding recruits, and surely some will be families. Of course, we may not have to wait so long, it seems as though the Hound and the Wolf may soon have pups.”  
  
           “Oh, that so?” laughed Ser Martyn, giving the Hound a quick, congratulatory thump on the back. “Seven blessings, Lady Stark!”  
  
           “Seven blessings!” repeated Jorah Hexley, hitting an open hand on the table, as if he’d just won a bet. Both men kept their Southron gods, though Jorah Hexley kept the old gods, too.  
  
          The Hound nodded stiffly and looked over at Sansa, setting his food down. If any tension was sensed, most probably would have assumed it was due to the fact that the two were not officially wed. While generally frowned upon, Sansa’s rather complicated situation was common knowledge, and with her and Sandor sleeping in the same room, it was not so difficult to reach the obvious conclusion.  
  
          Sansa gave a wide-eyed, strained smile for the group.  As it was, nobody seemed to notice, but for Sansa it seemed that the whole Hall had gone quiet. They were all used to the Hound’s emotional restraint, or rather lack of emotional range, but Sansa knew the truth of it; this was as much news for Sandor as it had been for Ser Martyn and Jorah.  
  
          Conversations continued as they had been, oblivious to what had just happened between Sansa and the Hound, however he did not resume eating. Instead, he drained his cup of wine and excused himself from the table without a word. Sansa wanted to bury her face in her hands, but she knew better. Sandor was able to get away with more, but Sansa felt that she had an entire legacy to uphold. _It can wait. Do not turn this into a scene by going after him._ She sat politely through dinner, then desserts, without touching a thing. She made conversation as if nothing had happened, doing her best to pay attention when half of her mind was elsewhere. Finally, after desserts were being cleared, she politely excused herself with her apologies and said her goodnights, explaining that she suddenly felt very tired.  
  
           “Are you feeling all right, my lady? Shall I walk you up?” asked Maester Redwin.  
  
          Sansa smiled, “You’re very kind but please, don’t trouble yourself. I’m…afraid I slept poorly last night, I imagine I should feel much better after I rest… I will ask for you if I still feel unwell.” With that, Sansa retreated from the Great Hall at a steady, dignified pace. Once she was out of sight, she walked much faster, hoping she had not done too much damage by waiting before going after Sandor.

          She knocked gently on their bedroom door, “Can I come in?”

  
           “Yes.” Came the muffled reply.  
  
          Sansa pushed the door open. Sandor was sitting at the foot of the bed, slouching to rest his arms on his knees. As usual, his expression was angry and inscrutable, and as usual Sansa assumed the worst. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he rasped, staring at the hearth.  
  
           “I only went to see the maester yesterday…I was going to tell you, I just wanted to be certain.”  
  
          He nodded almost thoughtfully. “Certain of what?” _Certain you wanted it? Certain you wanted to tell me?_  
  
          “Certain…that I was. That I wasn’t just late…I…didn’t want to say something only to bleed the next day,” she replied, confused at the question.  
  
           “Oh.” He looked like he was thinking of what to say next, so Sansa waited patiently. She hadn’t prepared for much of a talk, she hadn’t realized it would have slipped out like that. And when it did, she thought there would be more…excitement, at least. _Something_ , other than him running away. Instead, Sansa felt like she’d just informed him she was very, very sick.  
  
          Sandor took a breath, “Do you want it? Are you happy?”  
  
          With a pang of guilt, Sansa understood. “I don’t know, I- No, wait, listen, please-I do, of course I do. Of course I’m _happy_. I’m just…I mean it’s scary, a little, but I do…I do _want_ this, if, I mean…” She was babbling, she didn’t know why she felt so defensive. _Don’t be a child._ She took a moment to quiet her thoughts, took a breath and nudged his shoulder lightly, “…Do you?”  
  
          He nodded, flexing his jaw, and Sansa sighed. She hadn’t meant to worry him like that, to scare him… it hadn’t even occurred to her that he might assume anything otherwise. How could he think she wanted anything else? She’d all but told him before that she wanted a family with him. She leaned her head against his leather-covered shoulder and slid her arm under his. He took her hand.  
  
          _Ask her,_ Sandor thought.  
  
          He stayed where he was. After a very long silence, in which he fought internally with himself and seriously considered running away before deciding on a sort-of middle ground, Sandor said starkly, “We’re not married.”  
  
          Sansa nodded, “I’ve been talking with Septa Mariyah. She’s…I’m getting my marriage with Tyrion annulled, she’s helping me. If the High Septon accepts, then we could be wed, if that’s what you want.”  
  
          He squeezed her hand and nodded once more, and though Sansa had _assumed_ he wouldn’t say no, wouldn’t refuse her, it still made her heart flutter with relief. Rather suddenly, Sandor turned and pulled her into a tight embrace, surprising her. It took a moment for her to catch up, but when she did her arms pulled around him in return, and cheek pressed to chest, his heart thumping loudly in her ear.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Sandor becomes Lord Stark_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for fluffy fluffy fluff, and smutty smutty smut.  
> Don't forget to take breaks from the computer screen (you know, to avoid Sansan overload)

          With a raven now sent to the High Septon, all there was left to do was wait, and at long last they had their answer. Sansa’s request had been granted, and she was no longer a married woman. She did not get to enjoy unmarried life for long, however. The same day the raven landed with the news, the two began making arrangements, and they were married within the week. It was the least grand wedding Sansa had attended, the ceremony was far from lavish, but it was a simple wedding befitting of a Stark.  
  
          Her dress was made as a wedding gift from the seamstresses, which they had worked on tirelessly since the raven was sent to the High Septon. They _insisted_ it was just a simple gown for no special occasion, not wanting to invite bad luck by saying it was for the wedding before the High Septon had approved the annulment request. It was dusty grey, and fit to accommodate the growing swell of her belly. The virgin wool dress, long sleeves, and white fur-lined hems and cuffs, ensured she would be kept warm without need of many bulking layers.  
  
          They were married in the godswood under the canopied white branches of the Heart Tree, for the old gods to bear witness. Sansa had taken many walks through many a godswood, but none she had taken before this day ever filled her with such overwhelming joy, nor would any walk thereafter. With red leaves falling around them, Sandor and Sansa held hands, spoke their vows and sealed them with a kiss.  
  
          Anyone in Winterfell who wished to attend was welcome and although there were no formal invitations sent out to the kingdom, Maester Redwin sent ravens out carrying word of the marriage. At worst, they figured it would only tell the kingdom what was already known, and at best it would show a confidence and strength that would have been absent had the word been spread by other mouths.  
  
          When the ceremony was over, everyone retreated to the Great Hall, celebrating with song and feast, presenting gifts, and offering blessings. With still much work needing to be done in Winterfell, many gifts came in the form of goods and services that would aid in restoring Winterfell to her former glory. The bedding ceremony was, naturally, eschewed, considering Sansa’s condition, although the hall was full of jokes about it, comments on how they were so eager that they’d bedded each other months before they’d been wedded. The newlyweds took the jokes with dignity, as nothing could have darkened their spirits, and it was all in good fun.

 

 

          It was not difficult for anyone to accept that Sandor Clegane was the new Lord of Winterfell, save for perhaps Sandor Clegane himself. The men of the castle were born to serve, they wanted to serve, and they lived to serve…it was easy for them. Sandor, on the other hand, was not born to be a lord, he didn’t want to rule over anyone, and he lived to follow, and to fight. But he also lived for Sansa now, too. So if that meant ruling, then ruling he would do, if not begrudgingly and reluctantly the whole way. Luckily, it seemed Sansa was made of better stuff, so most of his ruling included sitting quietly at her side while she took care of things.  
  
          After a _much_ needed break, and after a long day of such tedium, Sandor found himself wandering for the kitchens in search of some mulled wine. No sooner had he stepped out into the snow, then he heard, “My lord! My lord!”  
  
          He gritted his teeth. _I am no lord_ he wanted to say, and watch them struggle to find the most polite way to address him, but he _was_ a lord now. It was only _ser_ he could fight with. “Yes,” he responded flatly.  
  
          It was pudgy Lord Barton, who wasn’t really a lord at all. He served as a sort of temporary master-of-coin and was also charged with overseeing and helping to manage the rebuilding and revitalization of Winterfell. Sandor did not trust anyone who could seemingly create gold of thin air like this man did. “Ah, yes, oh-ho! Well, I have a rather pressing matter that begs discussion, my lord!” he said, ever cheerful in a way that was out-of-place for most in Winterfell.  
  
           “ _Yes_?” said Sandor again, impatiently.  
  
           “Aha, yes indeed! Well, you will be _pleased_ to hear that Jorah Hexley has finally been equipped with everything he needs to get his shop and stables running, meaning the guardsmen should have much better armor from here on. However, ah, there is still the small matter of a kennelmaster and furrier…and of course, Lady Stark has mentioned procuring a singer to liven up the halls…”  
  
          _Seven buggering Hells_ Sandor thought, as the lord’s blathering faded to white noise in his ears, retaining only bits and pieces of information.  
  
           “…Karstark men are on their way to pledge their allegiances, with no lord ruling over Karhold. The numbers should be sufficient…”  
  
          “Fine. Good. That’s fine. Whatever you want,” he finally said, knowing how rude he was being. He saw Barton’s affronted look, and heard Sansa scolding him later, so he made himself add, “ _Apologies_ , Lord Barton. Sansa…was feeling ill this morning. I was just going to see that she was recovering. The babe, and all that.” The words sickened him, they felt like sticky soap on his tongue. Not a word of it was true, and though he didn’t abide by superstition he still felt wrong making up health issues for his wife as an excuse. Still, he felt he deserved praise for resisting obscenities.  
  
          The fat man’s face instantly became sympathetic, “Oh but of course, Lord Stark! I had no idea! My humblest apologies- we may discuss another day. Send Lady Stark my blessings,” and with a bow, he hobbled away, while Sandor hoped that wherever he was going, he did not run into Sansa.  
  
          After the marriage, everyone still called Sansa ‘Stark,’ as it was the name with the most power, especially in the seat of the North. Even he was called ‘Stark’, and it seemed only fitting that Winterfell should be ruled by a Stark, not a Clegane. Sandor had no complaints on this matter. The Clegane name had never done him any good, it was a scar on his flesh.  
  
          He would never admit it, but it pleased him that the running joke in Winterfell was that _he_ was more of a Stark than Sansa was, for he had the solemn manner, the dark hair, and the grey eyes of the Starks, all of which Sansa lacked. Still, House Clegane was not forgotten. Banners were made and hung bearing the sigils of both houses, and yellow had been an increasingly popular color, whenever a splash of it was needed to liven the place up.

 

          He went to their room, unlacing his swordbelt and setting it to lean against the wall. He was thankful to find Sansa sitting inside. She was chatting with some of her handmaidens, smiling up at him when he came in, and the two girls curtsied and excused themselves, though not before asking if Sandor needed anything. He didn’t, so they left, carrying with them an empty tray of lemon cake crumbs.  
  
          Sansa stood and went to him, standing on her toes to pull his face in, kissing his cheek and embracing him, warm as ever. He gave her a squeeze, then pointed his chin at the door where the girls had just left through, “We have to fire the bloody cook. She was told to make lemon cakes. Seems she only sent up crumbs.”  
  
          Sansa blushed, and smiled widely, “It _was_ you! Nobody would tell me!”  
  
          He shrugged, mouth twitching into a quick smile, “Aye.” He’d made sure nobody would tell her, lest it be on their heads. He’d wanted to do something _good_ , something for her that might make her smile, even if it was silly, even if it was stupid, even if it meant swallowing a bit of his pride. Something less daunting than asking for her marriage, especially since he'd managed to avoid actually having to ask her.  
  
          He’d spent the better part of an afternoon talking to the cook, asking her if she knew how to make those lemon cakes, and then asking what the ingredients were. Most of it they had, except for the lemons. For those, he had to talk to Maester Redwin, who in turn had to send men away to find lemons and bring them to the cook without anyone else in the castle knowing what they were up to, and then the bloody militant cook had refused to make them “until the time was right,” at which point Sandor had to inform her that the time was right _now_ , because he buggering well said so. Then, _finally_ , he’d gotten the damned lemon cakes. He took the leftover seeds to the gardeners in charge of the greenhouse, and asked them to do with them what they could, so that next time it wouldn’t be so much trouble. _It was still worth it_ he told himself.  
  
          She was still smiling. “I see you’ve managed another day without spilling blood.”  
  
          He sighed in frustration, “For you only. I told Barton you felt sick. He sends his blessings, so when he asks, don’t look bloody surprised.”  
  
          She pursed her lips, “ _Fine_. If you want me to continue lying on your behalf because you’re too stubborn to act the lord, I should expect more lemon cakes.” She raised a cheeky brow, and he nodded, giving her a tender kiss.  
  
          “As my lady wishes,” he growled sarcastically. Then hastily he added, “How _have_ you been feeling?”  
  
          Sansa laughed, “I feel fat, and clumsy, and hungry all the time. I am well, though.”  
  
          He sat down on the chair she had occupied, and patted his lap. After kicking off her slippers, she sat and wrapped her arms around him, “You get heavier every day, little bird,” he japed, and she smacked his chest in abashed amusement. He caught her hand and held it against his chest, pulling her in and resting his chin lightly on the top of her head. Then he asked, “You going to give me a son or daughter, then, little bird?”  
  
          She did not roll her eyes, she rarely ever did, but he knew the look she was giving him now meant the same thing. “You know I can’t tell.”  
  
          “Can’t you? Hmph.” He was only being half-serious, anyway; he’d heard there were some people who could predict such things, though he didn’t know if there was any truth to it. He lay a hand on the swell of her stomach lazily. He didn’t really care which it would be.  
  
          She lay her head in the crook of his neck. These moments with him were rare for her, where the two of them were just connected, and he could be open, and tender, and even sweet, in a way that others looking in would actually recognize as sweetness. Most of the time, she relied on knowing him well enough to decipher his moods that no one else seemed to be able to. For every moment he was sweet with her, he was still bitter with the rest of the world, and part of her wished others could see the man she did.  
  
          At the same time, his aspect was an asset for her. No matter how hard she tried, she would never be fearsome like he was, and she knew how easily she could be taken advantage of for it. It still did not feel like so long ago that she had been in King’s Landing. It was odd to think of how she was then. She felt like the same person, but she knew much of her had changed. And here at Winterfell as in King’s Landing, Sandor was still her closest friend, her protector, although no longer her _only_  one. He _was_ the only one she trusted completely.  
  
          Sandor craned his neck to look down at her, his little bird who was quite so little anymore, figuratively and physically. He ran a hand through her hair, closing his fist around the strands in a gentle tug. Then, _her teats are bigger_ , he realized, a poorly-timed thought that came into his head unbidden. She wasn’t looking at him, her eyes were closed, but he was looking down at her hungrily. Sandor hadn’t thought it possible for her to look any more beautiful, but pregnancy seemed to suit her well. Though her emotions could run amuck at times, she seemed openly hopeful and openly happier than he’d ever seen her. She practically radiated beauty. He felt the blood rush to his loins. Instinctively, he shifted himself a bit to accommodate the swelling.  
  
          He felt her shift against him, saw a blush creep upon her cheeks, eyes fluttering open. He knew she felt it. She looked up at him, almost amused. He shrugged his shoulders- he couldn’t control such things. But she wasn’t upset with him, instead the corner of her mouth turned upward. It was an invitation.  
  
          He rocked his hips up to grind his bulge against her, and she inhaled softly. _Gods_. Greedy hands went to her teats, pulling down the bodice of her dress to free them, cupping the soft flesh gently. One hand went to the small of her back to pull her into him, her fingers grasped at his shaggy hair and her breath was hot against his ear. He stood, heaving her up with him so her legs were on either side of him. He walked to the door with her, holding her up in one arm while he reached the other to turn the bolt in the door.  
  
          She was planting soft kisses against his neck, needy kisses, urgent kisses. She didn’t know why she felt this way, she enjoyed laying with Sandor, but this time her desires were almost desperate. Her emotional reactions to things were not always in control of late, but she was surprised that she was being affected in matters of intimacy as well.  
  
          With the door securely locked, he went to the windows, closing the shutters just in case while she unlaced his leather tunic. He shrugged it off on the way to the bed, sitting at the edge with only his loose woolen tunic underneath. His cock was straining to free itself of its confines.  
  
          “Unlace me,” he rasped, teeth dragging against her earlobe.  
  
          Her fingers fumbled with the laces, pulling them loose. She reached down into them, her hand finding his hardness, and her fingers wrapped around it, eliciting a deep groan from Sandor. She released him only long enough for him to pull her dress over her head, which was thankfully loosely tailored. He didn’t even bother with her shift.  
  
          He pushed his trousers down below his hips, freeing his length. He pushed the skirts of her shift up to her waist, wordlessly guiding her with his hands on her hips. He pulled her up a bit, sliding his length between her folds…it slid like silk through soft fingers from her wetness. Easing her up again, he pressed at her entrance and guided her down, burying himself within her with a grunt. It was her turn to moan aloud.  
  
          When he leaned back on the bed, he did so with control, rather than flopping back lazily, keeping himself inside of her. She leaned forward a bit, planting a hand on his chest for support. With fingertips kneading into the soft flesh of her bottom, he guided her up and down, rocking his own hips to meet hers. When she seemed confident enough, he relinquished his control. It was clumsy work, at first, as she struggled to find what felt good, what felt best, how to move atop him. He didn’t care- it all felt good to him. When she found her rhythm, it felt even better.  


 

          They were both spent by the time they finished, lying on the bed facing each other as they caught their breath. Her hand rest over his thick upper arm, his hand on her back. It was a sweet moment.

          Sansa was lost in thought, but when she looked up at Sandor he was looking down at her with a furrowed brow.

          “Stop it,” he said impatiently, almost annoyed.  
  
          She looked up, “I…stop what?”  
  
          “You’re crying. Eyes are all red,” he rasped. He wound his finger around a lock of her hair, pulling it through, giving it another gentle tug. It wasn't true crying, only a few stray tears, but enough to bother him. He wanted her smiles, not her tears.  
  
          Sansa blinked, “Oh.” Then she laughed, taken by the absurdity of it. She had been thinking of family, though they had been good thoughts. She wasn’t actually upset at anything, but it seemed once again her emotions had a mind of their own.  
  
          He did not understand the joke. “ _Gods_ ,” he cursed, rolling to push himself up so he was sitting upright.  
  
          She lifted herself up as well and placed a hand on his chest, kissed him on his lips, then his forehead, letting her lips linger for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she said earnestly, but sweetly. When she was left with her thoughts, her mind couldn’t help but wander to her family. She couldn’t help being distracted. He shook his head at her apology, brushing a thumb over her cheek.  
  
          With a soft smile she pushed herself off the bed and went to grab a cloth to clean the stickiness from between her thighs. After that, she pulled her dress over her head, splashed water on her face, and went to grab his discarded tunic from the floor. She set it beside him on the bed and took his hands, “I’m sorry,” she repeated, tilting her head to the side sympathetically, “I’m poor company when things are quiet…Come outside with me?”  
  
          He would rather stay where it was warm, and where they would not be bothered by anyone else, but he could not refuse her, so he didn’t try. He relaced his trousers and his leathers unenthusiastically. Then he stood and they linked arms, and together they walked out into the dusty white grounds.  
  
          Within minutes, Barton found them.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dark wings, dark words_

          Before long, Sansa could go nowhere without people wishing her blessings of this and that, giving her gifts ‘for the little lord,’ and generally following her around. However helpful and dutiful everyone had been before, they were somehow twice as much now. Doors seemed to open themselves before her, she was never lacking an arm to hold to. Even the cook, who was usually very strict about what she would prepare, insisted that Sansa tell her anything she desired. Everyone wanted to know what name they would pick, but the truth of the matter was that they did not know themselves. They just hadn’t gotten around to talking about it yet.  
  
          Naming the child was the least of Sansa’s worries. She had done her best to prepare Sandor for ruling, since it would be unrealistic of her to be expected to perform her full duties in her condition, and especially after giving birth. Most women didn’t even have to worry about such things, but Sansa did. Sandor was _capable_ of being a good ruler, but he hated it. He was feared, but for most people it was difficult to love him…he was rough, angry, and sullen. _Fear alone does not make a good ruler…Joffrey was fearsome, though in a different way_. Sansa shuddered. She could sympathize, she remembered how the Hound made her felt when she first arrived at King’s Landing. So small, so foolish, so helpless.  
  
          She loved him, deeply and dearly, but she never forgot everything that she had been put through. He was _not_ a perfect man. So, while she had plenty of blessings from everyone in the castle, she spent her time in the sept and the godswood praying for him, and praying for the people in the castle, as well, just in case there was nothing more the gods could do for her husband.

 

 

          On her way from the godswood, she was confronted with another reminder of her husband’s imperfections. She made her way through the gates, her walk now looking more like a waddle with each passing moon, though she tried her very best to make it the most graceful waddle she possibly could, holding her head high. A hulking figure, her husband, was storming through the snow, leaving kicked up flurries like dust in his wake. _You have to learn to control your temper_ , she had told him, on more than one occasion. Her heart sank.  
  
         Following closely behind the Hound was Maester Redwin, a piece of parchment clutched in his hand, chains rattling as he tried to keep up, “My lord, please, be _reasonable_!”  
  
          “Shut up, old man,” he growled, and Sansa put a hand to her forehead. She was glad it was the maester, at least…of anyone else at Winterfell, Maester Redwin seemed to be the most patient, the most understanding of Sandor.  
  
          Her dignified air lost for a moment, she pulled her skirts up a bit and tried to catch up, “Sandor! Sandor, _stop,_ come here!” she called, stopping helplessly after a few short steps, dropping her hands down in frustration. Whatever had put him in a mood, it was not good. He didn’t stop, or even look back, though she knew he must have heard her. Maester Redwin had stopped, however, and turned his attentions to her, meeting her.  
  
          He looked distressed. “My lady, you should be inside, where it is warm.”  
  
          She shook her head and waved her hand hastily, “I’m _fine_. What happened?”  
  
          He would not relent. He held out his hand and said, “Please, let us discuss inside.”  
  
          Sansa was not a little girl anymore, she was a Stark, and however stubborn he would be, she could be twofold. “I will not come inside until you tell me what happened,” she retorted, feeling smug and proud of herself, but keeping her face still.  
  
          Sighing, and unable to contest with a wolf of Winterfell, he handed her the crumpled letter, “Lord Stark asked me to inquire about his brother. There has been…immense secrecy regarding the matter, for reasons I do not know, however after much delay I received this correspondence earlier this morning by raven…one of my confidants in the South.  I would have gone to you, my lady, but it did not seem fair to bother you in your condition. I thought it would be right to tell him first. He…was very upset. Naturally, I expected upset, of course, however…” He tilted his head to the side, as if to say _I did not expect_ **that**.  
  
          Concerned, Sansa smoothed out the paper as best she could, eyes scanning the contents, and then she understood. “Oh,” she said, looking off to where the Hound had disappeared. The maester had expected upset akin to grief. The Hound’s reaction had not been the hurt that was expected of someone who had been given grim news. He was angry, the sort of anger that came with deep disappointment. His rasping voice echoed in her ear, carrying words from years past- _The things I told you tonight…_  
  
           “I’m so sorry, maester. It’s…it’s a very complicated matter- a sensitive one for him,” she said hurriedly, handing the letter back to him and continuing to walk in the direction Sandor had gone, “Did he say where he was going?”  
  
           Maester Redwin walked wearily after Sansa when he realized there was no hope of getting her back into the castle without having her dragged in by force, “No, my lady, he did not.”  
  
          They followed path of churned snow all the way up to the East Gate, where it stopped then veered off to the partially restored First Keep. Sansa’s back was hurting, but she trudged along just the same. _If you ever tell Joffrey…_ All along the walls of the First Keep, wooden beams leaned against the walls, supporting the beaten structure from further destruction. Much of the wall had been repaired, but the extensive flooding from the springs left the wall sunken in at a weird angle that had not yet been fixed.  
  
          As Sansa stepped through the carved out entryway, she was relieved that they had not yet come across any blood or dead men. She wouldn’t put it past Sandor to cut anyone down who might cross his path, though she hoped he would know better. Maester Redwin rushed up to her side to grasp her arm, helping her climb the precarious steps to the top. It was there, at the top of the First Keep, with half the floor covered in snow where the ceiling had crumbled, that they found Sandor. _Your sister, your father, any of them…_  
  
          He stood with his back faced to them, a giant black mass against the white backdrop of Winterfell and the dusty snow plains of the North that stretched on past the East Gate. He couldn’t have missed their entrance, but he ignored it just the same.  
  
          Sansa walked to him and lightly touched the side of his arm. He recoiled, raising his hand away from her and shrugging his shoulder. Sighing, she stepped to the side, back facing the open wall so that she could look up at him, “I’m so sorry.” He did not acknowledge her for a long minute before he finally spoke. _I won’t, I promise…_ she had said to him.  
  
           “Don’t be.” His voice was gruff, livid.  
  
          “What can I do?”  
  
          “Nothing.”  
  
          “Will you come back?” His mouth twitched, he was getting annoyed with her, she knew.  
  
          “Later.”  
  
          “My lord,” interjected the maester, gently, “The Keep is not properly restored. It is not safe here. And the snow will have furthered the damage. I urged Lady Sansa not to come up here for that reason…” said Maester Redwin, in a soft voice, hoping to convince him to leave for Sansa’s safety, as one might speak to a dog who looked ready to bite.  
  
          “So take her away and bugger off.”  
  
           Sansa raised her hands in defeat. Her back hurt, and she was getting cold up in the winded tower. The baby was getting restless, too, she could feel. As long as he wasn’t running off on a rampage, she could handle his moods. She carefully stepped back to Maester Redwin and allowed him to take her arm. Very carefully, they made their way back to the castle.  
  
          “My lady, you said the matter was complicated. Might I ask why?”  
  
          Sansa shook her head, “I’m afraid…I’m afraid it is not my place to say, maester,” she said, earnestly. _If you ever tell anyone, I’ll kill you._  
  
          Maester Redwin nodded and did not press the subject further.  
  
          “Do you know…the manner in which he…?”  
  
          “I know only what was written in the letter. As I said, it seems there are people who do not want this news becoming common knowledge.”  
  
          It was Sansa’s turn to nod. The maester led her all the way up to her room and made sure a fire was burning and she had plenty of furs before leaving her there. Sansa asked to take dinner in her room that night, and have food send up for Sandor, too, just in case. Then she sat by the window the rest of the afternoon, bundled in furs, waiting for his return.  
  
          Soon, night fell, and Sansa’s eyelids were growing heavy. Wearily, she undressed for the night, pulling on her bedgown. The chair at the window was not helping her aches, so she moved to the bed, propping herself with pillows and leaning back. She looked at the door. It had been hours…surely he would be back soon. _Surely he will be back…he wouldn’t leave me here…_ She blinked heavily.  
  
  
          When Sandor returned, the witching hour had long passed. His stumbling entrance woke Sansa, and she heard him undressing. Somehow, she’d ended up on her side, curled underneath the blankets like a sleeping child.

  
           He didn’t go to the food. _Is the food still there? Did someone come to clear it?_ Groggily, she turned over as he approached the bed, and when slumped down to join her under the covers his skin was cold and shivering, and his hair was wet. He felt like a dead man to the touch.  
  
          Sansa assumed he’d gone elsewhere after she left, but he must have stayed up in that tower, standing in the wind and snow for all that time. Now he stank of wine, having made an obvious detour to the kitchens before returning to her. She made herself pull the furs and blankets up higher so he was more covered. There had been much she wanted to say before, but now her head was cloudy and tired, and Sandor’s breathing had deepened as well. She took his hand in hers, and he did not pull away this time. She pressed her lips to his cold fingers.  
  
          “I love you,” she murmured, sleepily. Sandor grunted. Then, he rolled towards her, burying his face in the pillows and against the crook of her neck, reaching an arm across her. Sansa lay her arms over his steel forearm, and promptly drifted back to sleep, this time joined by Sandor.

 

  
          When he woke, Sandor had warmed up, but the stink of wine still hung thick on him and his head was throbbing. With a groan, he opened his eyes. Sansa was still sleeping, a long strand of Tully red hair drifting down over her face. He brushed it back and tucked it behind her ear delicately, but even so she stirred and opened her eyes.  
  
          Sleepily, she raised her brows and pressed her lips together in a slight smile... sympathy. _She pities me_ he thought, angrily, and winced as her hand went to his cheek. Somewhat stiffly, he returned the kiss she gave him. She noticed.  
  
          “You’re still…upset?” she asked, sensitively.  
  
          “No. Head hurts. I’m fine.” He’d had his time to dwell last night. What was done was done, and now it was best forgotten. He’d left that baggage up in the First Keep, that part of him.  
  
          “You were drunk.”  
  
          “Aye.”  
  
          “I…I didn’t tell Redwin anything.”  
  
          “Nothing to tell.” He said, grumpily. What was there to tell, anyway? He didn’t care what she did. He was being difficult, though, he knew, and he did feel a bit guilty for it.  
  
          “Do you…want to go back?”  
  
          “Where?”  
  
          “South…to Clegane’s Keep. It will be…it’s yours now, isn’t it?”  
  
          He grimaced. “No. Piss on the fucking Keep. Bugger that. Rather see it burned than go there.”  
  
          She sighed, rolling onto her back, “All right.”  
  
          Then she laughed.  
  
          He shot her a look. He’d been in a mood ever since the blasted letter came. Ever since Maester Redwin looked on with grave concern and assured him that, should he want it, funeral arrangements could be made and he could ask about having the body sent up to Winterfell. As if he’d fucking wanted that. When she laughed, pretty a song as it was, his distracted mind assumed it was at his expense.  
  
          Instead, she just smiled and held her hand out, “Here. Give me your hand.”  
  
          Reluctantly, and with unwarranted suspicion, he held his hand out to be taken. She took him by the wrist and placed his hand flat over the swell of her belly. He eyed her, “What?”  
  
          She shook her head, “Shh, just wait, you’ll feel it…”  
  
          He had no idea what she was talking about, why she had a look on her face like she was waiting for something…he’d been so preoccupied in his own thoughts that he almost didn’t feel it at first, it was like a subtle rippling under his fingers. It grew stronger, and it became distinct movements. With a start, he realized what it was, and he was wrenched back into reality. He stared with a look of both surprise and fascination.  
  
          “Do you feel it?” she asked excitedly.  
  
          He nodded solemnly, and her smile grew wider. He couldn’t figure out how he felt as he spread his fingers out along her tummy. He was simply in absolute awe, captured by that small rippling that gave proof of life, that made the babe inside her suddenly, startlingly real. It was _alive_ , it wasn’t an invisible thing that would appear in a few months. It was _here_ , now, growing and moving and he could feel it. He stayed, wordlessly staring with his hand on her for over an hour while Sansa watched his face with dreamy amusement, until the movements slowly began to subside, as did his dark mood.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Visitors_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is one of the longer ones I've written, in an effort to avoid chopping into the action and making unnecessary cliffhangers. A small bit of drama...

          Maester Redwin and Lord Barton seemed to have done their jobs exceptionally well, as more guards began to fill the walls of Winterfell, knights from across the Seven Kingdoms swearing their allegiances and offering their protection. There were more families now, too- young boys who learned to squire, girls who learned to serve. With their numbers having started out so small and slowly growing, the task of organizing everyone had proven to be incredibly easy.  
  
          Everyone had their place and everything seemed to come together like a puzzle. It was in this way that everyone in Winterfell seemed to be deeply connected to each other and at the same time, somehow removed from the rest of Westeros. Efforts needed to be focused on the safety of themselves and their homes, the rest of the world was simply white noise.  
  
          For the same reasons, secrecy had also shrouded Winterfell for a long while, a necessity when the castle was in ruins and unable to be defended. Now that it was beginning to flourish, the secret was no longer possible to keep, and the news spread like wildfire _. Sansa Stark was alive and in Winterfell, and married to the Hound_. Within weeks, they began to get visitors, and the outside world was no longer quite so removed from their walls. Some came to pledge their allegiances, some offered services, and some came for trade, while some sought only a place to stay as they travelled through. Others came out of anger, disbelief, or vengeance.  
  
           The actions of Sandor Clegane or his kin, in particular, had not been forgotten, and bitter feelings remained with some in both the North and the South. Whispers of a “two-faced hound” were passed around as a cruel jape on both sides. However it was not words the House Stark feared, it was weapons. Much like the city of Vaes Dothrak, those entering the walls of Winterfell were forbidden to bear steel. Any time a visitor was allowed entrance, their weapons had to be relinquished. It had been the maester’s idea. The difference here was that the guards of Winterfell still carried their own weapons. They had the suspicious caution of Qarth.  
  
           No more visitors were allowed in than the castle could easily defend at any given time. It was sometimes a tedious process, but in the aftermath of the Red Wedding, Joffrey’s wedding, the betrayal of Theon Greyjoy and House Bolton, hearts had been hardened and minds disillusioned. If anyone who wanted to stand before the Lord and Lady of Winterfell refused to comply, they were simply turned away.

 

          Perhaps the biggest setback of the guards was the friction caused between the knights and Sandor. It was a bitterness that could not be overcome, and it was one which he did not hide well, nor did he attempt to. Northern cavalrymen and knights of The Seven alike, anyone who bore the title of ‘ser’. He mistrusted all of them, and in all of them he saw Gregor.  
  
          Sandor made a point of keeping himself battle-ready, never going anywhere without his sword, as if to solidify his position as alpha. Even without sword nobody could question his place, anyway. If Sansa needed guarding, he stood closest to her, and it was very rare to see Sansa flanked by guards without the Hound in sight. It was one of those rare days when a group of men without banners arrived at the gates of Winterfell and were granted entry.  
  
          Sansa was wearing a muted green gown, loose and lined with fur, and a thick woolen cloak fastened around her shoulders with a silver fish clasp. The cloak had been crafted from Sansa’s wedding dress. Her hair was windswept and loosely braided back, curling around her shoulders and down her back. The group of seven men had agreed to the terms and been stripped of their weapons, but even so Sansa saw that they were unhappy. In fact, the largest man looked practically livid.  
  
          Sansa donned her armor. “My lords, welcome to Winterfell.”  
  
          The men bowed and said their my-ladies. A short man with a thick jaw and weathered skin spoke up, “We are not lords, my lady. Just men seeking justice.” His lines seemed rehearsed, stiff. Sansa wondered if she sounded this way.  
  
          Sansa’s heart fell, she had been hoping for an easy morning, but she kept her graces, “We will do our best to give you the justice you seek. How shall I address you?”  
  
          “I am Thorren, from Hornwood. My companions are from many places, most of us from villages. We were ten. Three were lost on the journey here.”  
  
          “I am deeply sorry to hear of your loss, Thorren. You have traveled far. Please, don’t stand out in the snow any longer. If you would join me inside, where the fires are warm and you and your men can eat-“  
  
          “My lady, we do not want food, or warmth. We seek justice for our families. Every man here was a father and husband, and now every one of us is neither. During the war, our villages were burned to the ground.” When Sansa did not give him the reaction he was looking for, he added, “It was your lord husband’s brother, the Mountain that Rides, who carried out these attacks.”  
  
          Sansa felt instinctively uneasy, and she chose her words carefully before she spoke. “If you seek audience with Lord Stark, you shall have it…However, Gregor Clegane was no Stark, and Gregor Clegane is dead. We can offer you new homes in Winterfell, but I am afraid we may not have the means to do much more. Your justice may be better found in the South.” One of Sansa’s men, Ser Arden, quietly retreated.  
  
          Some of the men whispered to each other, others grumbled, but still Thorren was the only one who spoke. “While your offer is kind, it does not provide _justice_. Our homes are gone, and no one will remember them. Our women, our daughters and wives, were raped, beaten, and burned. Our sons were tortured and killed, men and boys alike. Only we few were able to survive, and we are not from the same place. The death of Gregor Clegane does not make up for the hundreds of lives he took.”  
  
          Sansa heard two sets of footsteps crunching in the snow approaching, and felt more at ease…Ser Arden had taken her hint. The men looked past her as Sandor Clegane approached, each and every one of them filled with a silent hatred that felt palpable to Sansa. None of these beaten down men could look at the Hound eye-to-eye, each had to crane their heads up to meet his face. “I am deeply sorry to hear of your incredible losses, and I can sympathize with them. My lord husband is not without fault, however the blood on his hands is not the same as the blood on his brother’s. I do not know what manner of justice it is you wish to have, but I’m afraid nothing we do will ever ease your heavy hearts.” Sandor stood at her side, less than a step behind her, wordless and stark. Her pregnancy was rendering her less patient- she tired more easily. _Justice, justice, justice_ her head chirped. _Do they know no other word?_ Then she scolded herself for taking their grievances so lightly- she knew their pain. Perhaps Sandor was rubbing off on her.  
  
          Thorren’s hands shook, the man was losing his composure, “We do not wish for our hearts to be eased, there is nothing- nothing that could change the pain. We- we do not blame the Hound for his brother’s crimes but as…as it stands, he is still a Clegane- he-“  
  
          A man beside Thorren took over, his voice was scratchy and raw and filled with sand. “We are the only remains of our villages and families. We are not young men- all our children are buried, and we have no one to continue our names, and it is because of your husband’s house, because of his doing, m’lady, because of the Mountain- when we die, our names die with us. _Justice_ means that the House Clegane suffers this same fate. _Justice_ means no one should ever fear the Clegane name again- this is justice.” It seemed the men were all reading from the same script. _Justice, justice, justice._  
  
          Sansa felt Sandor shift and knew he must be annoyed, but thankfully he kept to himself. It was clear that if Sansa could not win them, he would only provoke them further. One of the men spit at their feet, and Sansa quickly raised her hand to prevent the guards from drawing their swords. She understood how they felt, in a sense, she understood their pain. Sandor did not flinch, did not make a move. The larger man was crying- his eyes were red, and the tears leaked down his face into the tangles of his thick grey-streaked beard. “You have…my deepest sympathies, truly, and our humblest apologies, but we cannot give you this justice you are looking for. There are no Cleganes here, only Starks. We have offered you homes, and that offer is still open to you, however the brutality you endured died with the Mountain, your families—“  
  
          The large man could stand it no longer, he pushed Thorren to the side. “Our families are dead and all you give us are your empty fucking apologies. The Hound is a Stark only by name, and you only by blood- neither of you are true Starks. The both of you are Southron cunts—“ two men were tugging at his arm, trying to get him to stop, to stand down but he shook them away, “— you don’t care that we are as good as dead, you lock yourself in Winterfell and leave the rest of the North to suffer under the Lannister thumb and then offer us homes when we ask for justice!” The men at his side were openly telling him to stop, now- he was going too far. Sansa had heard all these words before, and she took them with an impossible grace. “You bring a Lannister dog to the North and make him Lord of Winterfell and tell us we have nothing to fear! If you understood you would not have shit on the North by bringing scum from the South to Winterfell!” he was raging, and Sansa could feel her guards’ tension.  
  
          She kept herself standing tall, despite the ache in her back and ankles from standing. “Please, I…I understand you are hurting…Perhaps after you are fed and rested, we can continue to discuss another way—“  
  
          His thick hand hit the side of Sansa’s face with such force that she was sent into the snow, not having warning to brace herself from the unexpected attack. The man flew at her with a howl. Before Sansa’s guards had even touched their hilts, Sandor’s blade went straight through the man’s stomach in midair, painting the snow red. The other men had fallen to the ground in almost immediate mercy, they knew their companion had made a grave error the moment he had opened his mouth. They only wanted to spare their own heads, now.  
  
            The bearded man was spluttering blood. Sandor seemed to guide the man to the snow with his sword. Then, with all his weight, sent the bottom of his boot crashing down on the man’s face with a sickening _crunch_ , at the same time wrenching his sword with a twist from his stomach. He would have gladly slain the rest of the kneeling scum without a second thought had he not been so worried for Sansa, who had not gotten up. He turned to the guards with a fury.  
  
          “Get the fucking maester, you worthless fucking shits. Take these away,” he pointed his bloody sword at the kneeling men, “and _gods help_ any man who is still here when next I turn around,” he rasped, throwing his bloody sword at the ground with a careless fury and going to Sansa.  
  
  
          Sansa had fallen on her side, her fall somewhat cushioned by the snow, and her own hands. She was clutching the side of her face now where she had been struck. Her ears were ringing, and she felt as though someone had thrown her into a river of ice water.  
  
          She had not been hit like that since King’s Landing. In the slap she felt Ser Meryn beating her over, and over, and over while Joffrey’s laughter rang out. She had not been hit like that since the Hound saved her, since the Hound cut open Meryn Trant like a butcher, since Joffrey died foaming at the mouth. _Justice, justice, justice_.  
  
          Sandor dropped to a knee beside her, heart pounding. _Stand up._ She hadn’t moved- she was shaking, clutching her face, but she hadn’t gotten up. _Let her be okay. Let the babe be well._ He reached out to touch her arm, to help her get up.  
  
          “ _Don’t touch me_!” she shrieked, her voice cutting through the air like steel. He recoiled. She turned, and her eyes were wet and red, but no tears fell. Her lip was split, trembling and bleeding. For a moment, her eyes were wild. Then she seemed to be brought back to reality, realizing it was Sandor at her side, and the hand clutching her face went to cover her mouth, mortified at her reaction.  
  
          Her eyes screamed apologies, and Sandor took her again. “Can you move?” he rasped, raw voice shaking in suppressed rage, none of it directed at her.  
  
          She nodded.  
  
          Ever so gently he held her arm, and slipped the other around her back, helping her back to her feet. He did not release her, supporting most of her weight in his arms as she leaned on him. “Walk with me.”  
  
          They heard the rattling of chains. Maester Redwin was running over with two apprentice boys following behind. Sansa took a few small steps, but doubled over with a sharp exhale, hand over her stomach. Sandor caught her weight, and she sank down. _Let her be okay._  
  
          Maester Redwin barely stopped, dropping to his knees with a skid beside her. “Ser Arden told me,” he said hastily, placing a hand over Sansa’s stomach for a moment, “Do you feel pain here?”  
  
          She nodded again, her breathing quickening. She opened her mouth to speak, afraid, “Is-?”  
  
          He did not give her a chance to ask. He spoke as his fingers pressed on her stomach through her dress, brow furrowed in concentration, “Bring her to her room, carefully. Boy, run and start a fire. My lady, you need to calm yourself.” He made sure his eyes were met with hers, “Breathe deeply. Do not worry yourself. Do you understand, my lady?” She nodded again, pressing her lips together tightly.  
  
          Sandor scooped her up effortlessly and brought her to their room. _Let them be okay._ He left his sword where it lay in the red snow. Maester Redwin followed shortly after him as he lay her back on the bed. The fire the apprentice boy made was burning bright, a bigger fire than Sandor would have liked, and it did not help his unease.  
  
          He stood back as Maester Redwin asked Sansa questions, talking in soothing tones, feeling her stomach, wiping the blood from her lip and putting a cool cloth to her cheek. Sandor was barely paying attention, he just wanted to know what was going on, and the less he knew the more worried he was getting. _Useless. Useless._ Quiet rage simmered inside of him. Finally, the maester turned to him.  
  
          “Stay with her. All seems to be well with mother and child, but it was a rough fall. I suspect her pain was from the trauma, but if it happens again call for me at once. She needs to stay in bed. Keep her still.” He instructed, then repeated, “ _All_ seems well. But it is best to be cautious…she need not be put under any superfluous stress in her state.”  
  
          Sandor nodded, and waited until all had left before he went to Sansa on the bed and wrapped his arm around her waist, his hand at the back of her head. He was hunched over her, as if to shield her. She was still shivering as she pulled herself up to hug him, finally allowing herself to release her tears. She had been terrified.  
  
          “You’re all right, little bird,” he murmured. _Let it be true._  
  
           When both of them had calmed, and Sansa felt sure the pain would not return, she allowed herself to sink back into the furs on her bed. Sandor went with her, and he put a gentle hand on her stomach, and she placed her hand on his. Her cheek had turned a blotchy, reddish-purple.  
  
          There was a knock at the door.  
  
          “Who is it?” rasped Sandor.  
  
          “Maester Redwin, my lord.”  
  
          “Come in.”  
  
          Sandor didn’t bother to move or get up. Maester Redwin had brought tea. “She should drink this. It will help calm the nerves, and help her sleep.” He sat at the edge of the bed and looked at her cheek, nodding slightly, “No more pains?” Sansa shook her head, and the maester smiled reassuringly, “Good. “Septa Mariyah was having a fit, but I told her not to disturb you, as I have told the rest. She went to the sept in hysterics, so I suppose it is time I tell her she can allow herself to relax now. As should you. Drink your tea before it goes cold, my lady.” He stood to go.  
  
          “Tell Ser Andell I want to speak to the guards. Tell him to make sure they are downstairs when I leave.”  
  
          Maester Redwin gave a bow and left. Within twenty minutes, there was another gentle knock. “They are here for you when you are ready.”  
  
          Sandor stroked mailed hand across Sansa’s forehead and gave her arm a squeeze, “Only be a minute,” he rasped. She nodded and let him go.  
  
          The maester was waiting outside the door for him and followed him down to the courtyard.  
  
Five guardsmen that had been with Sansa were all lined up at attention in the courtyard. Ser Andell stood off to the side, looking grim. “Where are the men?”  
  
           “Locked up, my lord,” said Ser Andell.  
  
          The Hound’s mouth twitched, and he rounded on the guards, the rage that he’d managed to temporarily rein in when he was with Sansa now boiling over, “You stupid, incompetent, useless fucking _cunts_. I should have you choose your arms or your heads to be cut off, since you seem to bloody think you can do your jobs without using either,” he snarled. “If your bloody lady didn’t have the good sense to bugger you lot and send for me, tell me when you would have drawn your bloody fucking swords? When she was dead? Have any of you even used a goddamned sword before, or where you all knighted for being able to stand like bloody idiots?” He was yelling.  
  
          “My lord-“  
  
          He threw a punch with such force that the other knights all winced. The victim of the blow stumbled back, but the Hound caught him by the neck, metal fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He spoke over the guard’s pained wheezing as the Hound’s covered palm pressed against his windpipe, “ _Don’t_ you fucking ‘my lord’ me, you shit- the next one of you cunts who opens his mouth won’t have a fucking mouth to open. Piss on you all of you and your bloody titles.” He glared, throwing the red-faced knight to the ground by his neck. He scrambled up quickly, trying to stifle his gasps for air. Sandor waited to see if anyone would dare speak. _Do it_ he challenged them silently. He didn’t care that he had no sword, he’d kill them with his bare hands.  
  
          They stood in silence.  
  
          His mouth curled angrily, “All you lot are going to stand guard outside the castle walls until the next moon, starting tonight. None of you will have swords, since you don’t bloody use them. You can pray to your precious fucking gods that the other guards might save you pathetic shits if any danger comes.”  
  
          They at least had the decency at least to bow their heads in shame.  
  
          “Get the fuck out of my sight. Leave your swords.”  
  
          Belts were loosened, steel clattered to the floor, and the men retreated.  
  
          The Hound turned to Maester Redwin and Ser Andell, who were each very still. Neither seemed afraid of the Hound, they seemed to know they were not his target, yet they wore the grim and stunned looks of unease one might expect to see on someone who had witnessed a child being ripped apart by a shark. “I’ll be in the room. You, pick new men to guard my wife. If they’re shit like these, it’s on your head. Have someone get my sword. You, make sure no one comes up. No one.”  
  
          Both men nodded and bowed. Sandor turned around and marched back up to Sansa.  
  
          She heard his shouting all the way up the stone staircase and through the heavy door that led to the room. His rages usually scared her, but in this moment she was grateful for it. She was not the stupid child she once was, but she would never possess the physical strength or instill the same terror the Hound could.  
  
          Perhaps it was because she was with child, and that trumped all other instinct and emotion, but she hadn’t even flinched when the man was killed. She was _glad_ of it. When his skull shattered, she felt _relieved..._ sickened, yes, but still relieved. _Justice, justice, justice._  
  
          She expected him to be fuming and pacing for a long while after he came back in. He pushed the door open and shut it behind him with great force, as she predicted. However, she was mistaken in that as soon as it thudded shut, he softened almost instantly, exhausted. His shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. He pulled off his gauntlets and let them clatter to the floor. Looking wearier than Sansa thought he could, he crawled back into bed with her as if nothing had happened. They held each other, and he slumped against her.  
  
          “Thank you,” she said softly.  
  
          “You all right?” he rasped.  
  
          “Yes.”  
  
          He gripped his arms around her back, and Sansa knew, despite their opposite reactions, he had been every bit as terrified as she was.


	38. Chapter 38

          Sandor forbid Sansa from meeting visitors in person from then on unless they were well out of striking range. She hadn’t argued with it. The knights had been so shaken by Sandor’s reaction to the incident, that if anyone so much as took a step closer they would surround Sansa almost instantly. He knew it frustrated Sansa, and she hated it, but he’d felt so scared, truly scared, when she fell that he did not want to take any chances, especially when _he_ was the cause of all this. _They wanted you, not her. Your fault._    
  
          Sansa preferred to stay inside now anyways, jovially claiming she felt entirely too fat to rule, to everyone’s amusement. Ser Andell was just happy that the new batch of guards seemed to be doing well, allowing him to keep his head firmly attached to the rest of his body.   
  
          Sandor did not want the other men, the ones whose comrade had attacked Sansa, to be so lucky. _They came for the Hound, they wanted the Hound, so they can bloody well have the Hound_ , he thought angrily. He knew Sansa would be upset with him, he knew it wouldn’t be _honorable_ , that it would be frowned upon by the other men. _Fuck their honor_ , he thought, spitefully.   
  
          But Sandor was not his brother. He _couldn’t_ be his brother. So, he gritted his teeth and offered the men the opportunity to take the black, as the offer for new homes in Winterfell was no longer on the table after the poor decisions of their friend, lest they wanted permanent homes six feet under the ground.  
  
          With Sansa mostly taking things easy, he took over. He was tired, but no one ever accused Sandor of being unfaithful to his duties. So he sat through meeting after meeting, heard news from places he did not care about, and spoke with people who came with problems he did not care to fix, but he did so without complaint.  
  
           When he had time, he would check on Sansa, who was now usually in her room with Septa Mariyah and other ladies. It was like a club. They would sit by the fire and tell stories, gossip, sing songs, and be merry. They often had needles and thread in hand. Whenever Sandor walked in, they all stopped what they were doing and turned their heads to look at him with big doe-eyes and heads tilted dreamily to the side. It seemed no matter how little he smiled or spoke, the simple act of him popping his head in to check on her, and giving her a nod when all was well, made him infinitely less fearsome to the women. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.   
  
          Later in the day, if time allowed, he would join the men hunting or help train soldiers. He was still a fighter at heart, and sitting around all day made him anxious- not to mention he wouldn’t have rumors going around that he had gone soft, carried from one ear to another by the ladies’ sighs.  
  
          At night, he would lie in bed with Sansa and they would talk about their days. Sansa was usually the one talking or asking questions, and Sandor answered accordingly, with his hand on her tummy. The rippling in her belly had become real _kicks_ , and the first time he felt it he’d cursed out loud…  
            
          “Does it hurt?”  
  
          Sansa laughed, “Sometimes. Not usually.”  
  
          “Feels like the babe’s going to kick a hole in you.”  
  
          She couldn’t help but laugh again, “I should hope not!” Sandor gave her his somewhat lopsided grin that she had once thought horrible, and took her hand. After a pause she asked, “What of the name? We still have to pick names.”  
  
          He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t care, long as it’s not bloody Florian or Jonquil.”  
  
          Sansa squeezed his hand, “I…was thinking, perhaps, if it’s a girl, of naming her…after my mother?”  
  
          “Fine with me,” he said, but realized immediately after that he didn’t even know her mother’s name, or he’d forgotten it. _Lysa?_ _No. Lysa was the other one_. _Damn._ “What was her name?” he finally grumbled.  
  
          She looked at him with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “Catelyn. My mother’s name was Catelyn,” she said, a bit sadly. This time, he took his time to think before answering. _Catelyn_. _Catelyn Stark…Catelyn Clegane…Hmph._ He didn’t like the way it sounded with his surname.  
  
          He nodded, “A good name. And for a boy?”  
  
          “Not Gregor?” She smiled.  
  
          He shot her a look, “That’s not funny.” But he found he wasn’t actually mad at her for it. How could he be?  
  
          “…Sandor?”  
  
          “Hm?”  
  
          “The name. If it’s a boy.”  
  
          “Oh.” He blinked. It seemed logical, most families did such things, but it hadn’t even occurred to him that she would think to name the child after _him_. “Fine. If…that’s what you want. If you like it.”  
  
          “Well, do _you_ like it?”  
  
          He shrugged. He didn’t want her to feel obligated to name the child after him or anything, but she was still waiting for his answer. “Yes.” His mouth twitched. Sandor's fingers splayed out across her tummy, and in a rare tender move he nuzzled his face against the crook of her neck, giving her a quick peck. Her fingers interlocked with his over her tummy.  
  
          “It’s perfect, then…Catelyn or Sandor.”

          


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _An arrival_

          When the baby decided it was time to be born, it was with such a sudden pain that Sansa found herself doubled over. Of the three knights accompanying her on her walk, one ran to get the maester while the other two took Sansa’s arms, looking incredibly disappointed that they had not been the first to run for the maester.  
  
          Completely out of their element, they helped Sansa to her room just as the maester arrived, followed by two midwives. Septa Mariyah was next. Maester Redwin’s apprentice boys ran up shortly after with cloths, basins, water, and so on. The midwives helped Sansa undress and redress into a bed gown. Sansa was blushing the whole while from the immodesty, but they all assured her they’d done this _many_ a time, and there was no need for her to be shy. She blushed anyway. While the maester set a fire and apprentice boys filled a hot tub, Sansa sat at the edge of the bed, holding her stomach and closing her eyes tight from the pain.  
  
          “Remember to breathe, my lady,” Septa Mariyah reminded her, and Sansa did her best to do so.  
  
          The wave of pain passed, and the fire was burning bright. When she felt up to it, Sansa stood and began to pace about the room, followed by the septa while the midwives and maester continued to organize themselves.  
  
          “Where is Sandor?” Sansa asked, peering out the window. He’d promised her he would be there.  
  
          “He should be along shortly, Lady Sansa- I believe he was out on the hunt with some of the men.”  
  
          Another contraction came, and Sansa leaned her hand against the window sill, exhaling sharply, “ _Gods_ why would he leave me here?! Sorry. Sorry.” She quickly apologized for speaking out of turn, and the maester laughed, continuing to mix some sort of paste in a mortar.  
  
          “My lady, I believe Septa Mariyah will agree with me when I say that the gods forgive the cursing done by a woman in labor.”  
  
          The septa pursed her lips disapprovingly at the joke, but gave a small shrug just the same. Sansa wasn’t even paying attention.  
  
          “Did you send someone to get him? How will he know?”  
  
          “I sent Ser Gavin after him, my lady. He should not be hard to find, and I imagine he will waste no time getting here once he hears.”  
  
          Sansa shook her head, “What if he doesn’t come?”  
  
          “We’ll take good care of you, m’lady,” quipped one of the midwives, a plump, ruddy woman. The other midwife hit her arm with a look of warning.  
  
          “What!” cried Sansa, her voice strained as another contraction hit. She looked at the maester frantically, “No- please, he _has_ to- How does Ser Gavin even know where- I should go find him-” She knew as she spoke that it was silly, but still she _felt_ that if only they would let her leave, she could find Sandor in minutes, where Ser Gavin had failed.  
  
          Septa Mariyah quickly intervened, shooting the midwife a look, “Of course he will be here, my lady. Don’t worry yourself over it.”  
  
          Sansa eyed the door, but the other, more tactful midwife went to her, “Come now, let me brush your hair back while we wait for your lord husband to arrive.”  Sansa reluctantly agreed, so the midwife took the wooden horsehair brush from the vanity and began to run it through Sansa’s soft red hair, having her sit by the window. Sansa still had not calmed down, she was wringing her hands anxiously while the nurse braided her hair down and tied it off. _Be strong, be strong, you are a wolf,_ she told herself, trying to fight the fear that was beginning to overwhelm her. She felt like a child again, she was too young, she couldn’t do this. She tried to remember how old her mother was when she had her first child, but it seemed her brain had become suddenly incapable of performing basic mathematics.  
  
           She stood up again, needing to busy her mind to keep the lump in her throat down. Sansa went to the window again, but saw only snow and people going to the godswood to pray. There was still no sign of Sandor, and she had been laboring for well over three hours. She couldn’t do this alone. She wanted her family, she wanted her mother. She needed Sandor.  
  
          She turned to Maester Redwin. “Please, you _have_  to find him- something- something must be wrong, if he’s not here- he wouldn’t _leave_ me! What if he’s hurt? And you are all just sitting here!” her hands were shaking. The more she thought about what could be wrong, the more she was absolutely certain something _had_ gone wrong. Without thinking about it, she made a run for the door.  
  
          The midwives were faster. Taking care not to hurt her, one rushed in front of her to block the door while the other took her arm. “Come, now, m’lady- be reasonable. You’re not dressed!”  
  
          “ _Stop_ it, let me go- there’s something _wrong_!”  
  
          “My lady, please, if something was wrong, surely one of the guards would have come by now. Whatever is holding your husband, it can be attended to later, but the baby is coming _now_ ,” urged Septa Mariyah.  
  
          “No, the baby is _not_ coming now- the baby will _not_ come until-“ her voice cracked and faltered as another contraction hit, and the midwife at Sansa’s arm steadied her, rubbing her back. _Stop it, you’re crying, you’re acting like a child. Mother wouldn’t have acted like this_ she told herself. Her fingers went to pinch the bridge of her nose, just between her eyes. _But her husband was with her- Father was there for her, he wasn’t running away to get himself killed_. _Gods…what will I do?_ Her thoughts faltered momentarily to Queen Cersei when she realized the midwife was gently leading her away from the door. Sansa wrenched her arm away when she caught on, “ _Stop it_! Unhand me, do _not-_ “  
  
          The door burst open, and Sandor Clegane stood in the doorway, covered in snow and breathing heavily, scanning the scene in front of him. The midwives rushed to close the door behind him looking incredibly relieved, a frazzled Maester Redwin stood for a moment out of respect, then seated himself once more at the table where he was setting up. Sansa had turned, her trembling hand at her mouth, staring wide-eyed up at Sandor.  
  
          Septa Mariyah sighed with relief and sat down, mumbling thanks to her gods. He was the only one who was not in hysterics. _Bloody henhouse_ , he thought, wrinkling his nose. He allowed the midwives to pull his cloak off, while he removed his swordbelt and handed it off to one of them when she was free. His lady wife was still staring at him like she had seen a ghost.  
  
          He knew he’d been late, but once he entered and saw that Sansa was clearly still laboring, he was relatively unconcerned. He hadn’t missed anything, he hadn’t broken his promise to her. He’d been out with some of the men past the walls of Winterfell, and of course the gods were scheming, so in a cruel jape they had sent Sansa into labor the _one time_ he wasn’t within the immediate vicinity of the castle. One of the younger boys who was squiring had lost control of one of the horses, and since Winterfell did not yet have many horses to spare they had all gone off in search of the runaway. They had been able to retrieve the horse, but it had wandered rather far, and gotten caught up in some thick brambles. It had taken Ser Gavin hours to find them, and when he did finally trot up it was clear that he had been taking his time.  
  
           “ _My lord, I am sent to inform you that your lady wife is laboring.”_ Sandor had been furious, with the knight and with himself, “ _Why didn’t you buggering come sooner?”_ he’d yelled when he heard how long it had been, only to be told defensively, “ _Forgive me, my lord, I didn’t think you’d want to **be**_ _there until the babe was actually born. I’ve heard it’s a rather unpleasant process_.” Sandor called him something along the lines of a “bloody buggering foolish cunt” and had continued to grumble other insults to himself as he spurred his horse back to the castle.  
  
           The godswood and the small sept had been crowded with people filtering in and out, all of whom had heard news of the baby’s coming arrival before he had. But he was here now, and the babe had not yet come, nor was Sansa even in bed yet, so he allowed himself a bit of forgiveness despite her misty sapphire eyes riddling him with guilt.  
  
          He went to her. “…Sorry,” he grumbled, a word he rarely used, but the only one he could think to say to her at the moment before quickly adding, “Ser Gavin’s a stupid cunt,” as if to redeem him his weakness. He held out his hand and ignoring the disapproving clicking noise the septa made at his choice of language.  
  
          She finally seemed to register that he was here, blinking her red eyes and taking his hand. All her strength seemed to flood back. _Why was I so upset before?_ “I’ve been here for _hours_ \- I thought…I thought something had happened to you.” She wasn’t upset with him.  
  
          “Talk to your buggering gods about it, they’re the ones who sent a horse running off in the bloody snow for no damn reason,” he grumbled in spite of the septa, still a little bitter about the whole thing. He hadn’t even bothered to take off his armor, only throwing off his gloves as he made his way upstairs. He squeezed her hand, “I’m here now, little bird.”  
  
          A breathy, mewling sound escaped the plump midwife, the same sound girls made at the sight of a newborn babe. Sandor turned to see her with her hands to her heart, but she quickly turned away and busied herself when she saw his face. He rolled his eyes and Sansa smirked. He never called her _little bird_ with people around, but in this case he’d let it slip. He made a mental note to warn them all later that if that fact left the room, he would cut out their tongues. Sansa bent forward, cringing, hand on her stomach. He held onto her, placing a hand on her shoulder.  
  
          “You all right?”  
  
          Sansa nodded. “Mhm,” she managed to reply, straightening up again when the pain passed.  
  
          “How long will it be?” he asked the maester, who had finished mixing what he needed and was now poring over some letters and papers.  
  
          Maester Redwin looked up from his reading, “It is hard to say, my lord,” he replied thoughtfully. “She is still early in her labor, I should say. Right now all there is to do is wait, I am afraid.”  
  
  
  
          Night fell, and the window shutters were pulled closed. Lamps were lit, and the midwives sat and talked amongst each other while Septa Mariyah told stories to Sansa at her request to keep her mind occupied. She sat at the edge of the bed listening while Sandor stood beside her solemnly, a hand on her shoulder, and Sansa’s hand on his, gripping his fingers. Tea was brought up, as well as a spread of fruits, breads and cheeses for the room. A bowl of broth was brought up for Sansa, but Sansa found she wasn’t very hungry and allowed Sandor to dip his bread in it.  
  
          As Sansa’s contractions grew longer and more painful, she found it difficult to sit upright. The midwives had spread towels out over the bed and pulled the furs and blankets away, and Sansa lay on her side with Sandor now sitting beside her, steady hand on her upper arm, as much affection as he was willing to show publicly. Sansa was just glad to have him here, but part of her longed for her mother, wished her mother could have been there to tell her what to expect, wished she could be with her now. One of the midwives brought packed snow wrapped in a cloth, which she pressed to Sansa’s hot forehead and chest.  
  
          “How much longer am I meant to be in such pain?” Sansa wailed, as a particularly painful contraction hit.  
  
          The septa sighed sympathetically, “If the gods are good- which they _are_ ,” she said, adding emphasis and giving Sandor a stern look, “-then it should not be too much longer. The first birth is always the hardest, my lady. The rest will be easier.”  
  
          Her hair was wet and frizzy along her hairline, dotted in sweat. Sandor, who had been mostly silent, growled for more ice, which the midwife quickly brought.

          It was nearly first light when it was finally time for the baby to come. The midwives suggested Sandor leave, assuring him he would be happier elsewhere and they would take good care of her. Sandor never moved from her side, just shook his head stoically and kept his hold on her hand before Sansa had a chance to yell at them for even suggesting he leave.  
  
           At first, Sansa tried to hold the screams in, and he could see her struggling to keep her composure, whimpering in an effort to suppress any noise. When the time came, however, she was unable to control what was natural, and she screamed. She held Sandor’s hand as if it were her lifeline, not once letting go, squeezing it so hard that her knuckles turned white. He clenched his jaw and stared at a spot on the wall and did his best not to squeeze back, for fear that he might crush her hand to dust if he did. When it was over, baby girl seemed to shriek just as loudly as Sansa had, and Sansa was crying and laughing all at once.  
  
          Once the cord was cut, Maester Redwin was immediately at Sansa’s side with a cup of milk of the poppy, which she accepted. “Go tell young Boden to fetch the wet nurse, take the child to be cleaned elsewhere- Lady Sansa needs rest.”  The midwife nodded and left, telling the young apprentice boy to get the wet nurse as she closed the door, taking the screaming babe with her.  
  
          The other one went to Sansa, “Come now, m’lady, let’s get you bathed,” she said tenderly.  
  
          Sansa was still holding his hand, though her grip was no longer as vice-like, but she shook her head, “Please, I’m tired,” she said rather feebly.  
  
          “Is she all right?” Sandor finally rasped, through clenched teeth. The room seemed so silent now, suddenly devoid of the cacophony that filled it only minutes ago.  
  
          Maester Redwin nodded, “She is perfectly fine, just exhausted from her labor. I have given her the milk of the poppy, which should allow her to sleep through her pains, but it is normal for her to be out of sorts. The labor was very long. She took it exceedingly well.”  
  
          The midwife was still trying to coax Sansa up, but she only shook her head and clutched Sandor’s hand in both of hers. Sandor moved to help her sit up, but she looked so fragile and exhausted that he just wanted to hold her. He didn’t feel all there himself, he was just going through motions. “Go on, little bird,” he murmured.  
  
          She managed to sit, swaying a bit, “The baby…where is- is the baby all right?”  
  
          The midwife nodded, “A healthy baby girl, m’lady,” and the second midwife entered having passed the baby off to the wet nurse, and went to help with Sansa, taking her other arm. He still held her hand. He didn’t want to let go. “We need to bathe her, m’lord- best you wait outside while we clean up. Won’t take long.” They were all looking at him, so finally he gave her hand a squeeze and forced himself to let her go as he stood. The midwives pulled her to her feet, and reluctantly, Sandor left.  
  
          When he got outside, he leaned against the wall wearily, his head spinning. “Do you need anything, m’lord?” asked one of Redwin’s young boys.  
  
          “Wine,” rasped Sandor. The boy bowed and ran off.  
  
          He could hear the baby screaming off in one of the other rooms. Within minutes the boy was back with a flagon of wine and a full cup. Sandor took it, and realized his hands were shaking. When he turned, he saw the boys were staring at him. “Bugger off,” he rasped.  
  
          One of the midwives popped out carrying a basket full of soiled sheets and towels, hanging it off to the boys to take away. Sandor turned to the door, but she held up her hand, “Just a few more minutes, m’lord,” and shut the door. He huffed and turned away, wiping the back of his hand across his sweaty brow. The baby was screaming so loud. _A girl_ … _Catelyn..._ He hadn’t even gotten a look at the baby, he had no idea what she looked like. He’d been doing everything he could to keep his nerves, and he’d been staring away the whole time. He looked at the closed door, taking a long drink of wine. He wanted to see Sansa. _Sansa,_ he thought, marveling at her strength, _she is no bird._ The wine he drank tasted more bitter than usual, but he forced it down, realizing that in this circumstance, he was made of weaker stuff than his wife.  
  
          After what seemed like an eternity, and an entire flagon of wine, the midwives, maester, and septa stepped out. All of them looked tired and relieved. “She is asleep, my lord. The milk of the poppy will make her disoriented, so do not be alarmed by that. If she seems to be in great pain, or anything at all seems to be wrong, send for me immediately. She has been through quite a lot,” the maester explained.  
  
          “Seven blessings,” said the septa.  
  
          Sandor nodded, and waited until they had walked out of sight before he opened the door to their room. It was eerily quiet…he’d seen plenty of wars, but the bedroom now seemed like a battlefield of its own. He’d heard his share of women birthing, though always through closed doors and of women he cared nothing for, in the same way his little bird had heard tales of war in the safety of high castle walls. Sansa was wrapped in furs, her chest rising and falling steadily. _Gods, she’s beautiful._ He dressed for the night and crawled into bed with her, wrapping his arms around her and letting out a tired sigh. He felt utterly spent, and so he couldn’t imagine what Sansa must have felt. He pulled her in tight.  
  
          She let out a groggy sort of groan, “The baby…is okay?”  
  
          He nodded against her, surprised she had woken. “Aye, little bird. Maester says she’s healthy.”  
  
          Sansa smiled wearily, keeping her tired eyes closed, “A girl?”  
  
          “Aye.”  
  
          “…Did you tell Father? Does he know?”  
  
          He furrowed his brow, not knowing what to say. _She’s hardly awake, she won’t remember._ “…He knows, I’m sure,” he said, stiffly. Someone was in the Bell Tower, ringing the bells. There were some whistles and cheers that could be heard outside the window from those who were already awake.  
  
          She nodded, “Oh, good.”  
  
          After that, her words became somewhat inaudible. She drifted in and out, occasionally mumbling something under her breath. Sandor lay awake for hours after, feeling like he couldn’t sleep, that he would somehow be leaving her alone if he closed his eyes. He watched her resting, stroking her pretty auburn hair in awe. When he next looked up, he saw the sun peeking through the cracks in the window, and shortly after his world began to fade into darkness, dreams taking hold and pulling him in.


	40. Chapter 40

          The couple slept away that whole day after their daughter’s birth, straight through its night until the next morning. To the servants who came through to tend to the room, they looked like a single bundle of furs in their bed, Sandor distinguishable only because of his great mass. Sandor woke first, and as he stretched out his tired muscles he noticed that a new fire was burning in the hearth. The tub had been taken away, towels replaced… they’d slept through all of it. And the lilies… someone had arranged bouquets of Northern Lilies on either end of the room. He wrinkled his nose at the gaudy display.   
  
          Next, he noticed how _hungry_ he was, and he had half a mind to storm over to the kitchens and help himself. Instead, he looked down at Sansa, and found that as hungry as he was, he still didn’t want to leave her. She just looked so still and small. _Stop being so soft, you shit._  
  
          He forced himself to get up and dress. He was buckling on his swordbelt purely out of habit when he saw Sansa move. “You awake, little bird?”  
  
          She was only half present, but she nodded sleepily, “Mhm.”  
  
          “Stay in bed. Don’t get up. You hungry?”  
  
          “Mm…something small.”  
  
          He nodded, and left her there.   
  
          When the door closed, Sansa made herself roll over, putting a hand to her forehead. _How long have I slept?_ Her thoughts felt dim, fuzzy. Her body ached in places she hadn’t felt before, and the nails on one hand were dotted with tiny splinter hemorrhages where she’d gripped Sandor’s hand so tightly. _Even my heart hurts_ , she thought, putting a hand over her tummy. There were no kicks to keep her company. _I want my baby._  
  
           The memories of the birth were clouded and vague, but she shuddered at what few memories she did have…she didn’t realize birth would be so... _messy_. Nobody had told her, nobody had _warned_ her. And she knew there would be pain, but it was of an intensity that she could not have prepared herself for. She hadn’t even gotten to see the baby- her head had been buried between Sandor’s outer thigh and the mattress. _And so messy!_ She thought again. How could it be that she'd gone her life without knowing that?  _There’s pretty for you_ , she thought, remembering the words the Hound had spoken to her years ago.   
  
           She groaned to herself, running a hand through her hair- her fingers catching in the tangles. _You’re a mess. Get up._ She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, though she wanted nothing more than to see the baby, to hold her and curl up with her. She started to prop the pillows upright so that she could lean back against them.

           As he made his way down the steps, Sandor ran into Maester Redwin, who looked rather startled.  
  
          “Ah! You are finally awake, I see. And your lady wife?” He turned around and joined step with Sandor.  
  
          “Just up. Might go back to sleep.”  
  
          The maester nodded understandingly, “Of course. She may still feel sore when she wakes, I would shy away from giving her anymore milk of the poppy, however if the pain is unbearable send for me, and I can provide. I will have my boys send more tea for her as well.”  
  
          Sandor nodded. As they trudged out into the snow, they were met with people calling out their blessings and congratulations. Some shouted the Stark words; _Winter is coming!_  Which Sandor found sounded more foreboding than celebratory. Still, he gave his nods and repeated the words back, “Winter is coming,” as did the maester. The words, and all the Northern ways, really, seemed to suit him much better than any of the customs in the South. He didn’t have to pretend to enjoy anything, not that he ever bothered to pretend, and that solemnness seemed to be somewhat appreciated here if not at least understood.  
  
          “Well, I do not need to tell you how excited everyone is…it seems we have all been in need of something to celebrate. They _will_ expect a feast, though, I must warn- for her nameday. Sooner, rather than later. With your consent, I will give Lord Barton the go-ahead to begin making arrangements. We can discuss the rest when the time comes, when both of you are feeling up to it.”  
  
          “Fine.” He opened the doors to the kitchens, and was pleased to find it bustling. He was met with more words and blessings, and before he had time to ask for food, the plump cook, with her stern, square face and oddly thick arms, spoke for him. She spoke with a thick, jerky cadence, but she had no foreign accent.  
  
          “My lord, you are hungry, your lady wife is hungry, you eat nothing for two days! Four times, my meals have been sent back and fed to the hounds.” She hit the large wooden tabletop in front of her, sending a cloud of flour up into the air, “I said, today, for sure. Everything is ready- you go back. Wine is there.” She thrust her finger over to the side with such force that it made the tight bun atop her head wobble.  
  
          She knew him well. He nodded and took the flagon. Maester Redwin raised a hand, “Thank you, Walla, as always.” She was not listening, she had already turned to give a smart smack upside the head to one of the young cooks for some mistake. Sandor wouldn’t doubt it if the rumors about her were true.  
  
          The pair turned and returned back the way they had come. Normally, someone following him around like that would have been bothersome, but Sandor didn’t mind Maester Redwin as much as the others. He didn’t bore him with small talk or trivial matters that could be handled by someone else. He was quiet when it was necessary, and spoke for the same reason.  
  
          When they reached the foot of the stairs, he stopped and turned to the maester, “My…The babe?”  
  
          “Catelyn, you chose, correct? Yes, she is doing well. Strong lungs. She cried so much your wet nurse was worried she might pass out,” he chuckled. “I imagine Lady Sansa will want to see her once she is awake. Once the two of you have eaten, I shall send Maggie down with the child.” Sandor nodded, and the two parted ways at the stairs, Sandor going to his room, while Maester Redwin continued on.  
  
          When he walked in, Sansa was sitting up in bed, and one of the windows had been opened. She smiled and held her hand out to him, beckoning him over. She had dark circles under her pretty blue eyes and her hair was in tangles, but she could not have been more enchanting to him. He set the flagon down beside the bed and pulled off his swordbelt, “Morning, pretty bird,” he said, taking her hand and pressing her fingers to his lips as he settled back against the feathered pillows.  
  
          She lay against his chest with her arm stretched across his middle, “Did you find food? Or did Walla kick you out of her kitchens?”  
  
          He snorted, “Both. Said she’d send some up.”  
  
          She nodded, “And…the baby?”  
  
          “Well. A girl. Catelyn.” She sighed happily. He didn’t know why he’d said the name, she was the one who picked it, but he’d wanted an excuse to say it aloud. A knock on the door indicated their food had been brought up. The servants filtered in with plates, followed by Walla herself, who seemed to have put on a fresh apron for the occasion. She clicked her tongue at the arrangement of flowers blocking the table.  
  
          “My lady, you do not need these flowers. No? Good. You, take those away,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the ornate displays. They were moved by the door. Sandor felt eerily like he had looked in the mirror, for a moment. She stopped in front of the bed with her hands on her hips. Sansa tried to smooth her hair self-consciously. When she made a move to get up Walla held up a flat hand, “You stay, my lady- you were not expecting me. Where is the baby?” She looked almost offended that the child was not there for her to see.  
  
          “She is with Maggie, the wet nurse,” Sansa replied. The woman could be awfully forward for someone of her status, but she had a presence that somehow excused what would normally be rude coming from anyone else in her position.  
  
          Walla sniffed, “Ah. Hmph. Well, I will see the child there, then. When she is done with the milk, she will need me. I will be the ‘wet nurse’- I will make her the best food. Very strong. You tell Maggie, eat what you do not. Winter is coming. Good.” She gave a bow and turned on her heel, snapping at the servants to follow.  
  
          “Winter is coming…” Sansa repeated with amusement. She wondered if the rumors were true, that the cook had come from beyond the wall, that she had once been a wildling. When the door closed, she couldn’t help but laugh. “I think she was disappointed to see us!” she said to Sandor, “But- oh, how nice.” The table was piled with a selection of food. Long strips of fatty meat in pepper sauce, charred sweet onions, the usual breads and cheeses, jams, curds, and butter. There were also sweet tarts and lemon cakes, and a large cup of honey milk. Sansa went to stand, and Sandor immediately went to the other side of the bed to help her. She waved him away, “I’m _fine_. Would you bring my robe? I don’t want anyone else to walk in and see me indecent.” He did, holding the emerald green fabric open for her to slip her arms into. He placed it over her shoulders, and she fastened it closed. Instead of going to the spread, she went to the vanity and started to brush her hair. He was hungry, and still incredibly tired despite having slept excessively.  
  
          “You’re not hungry?” he asked.  
  
          “I am, but… I’m a mess. You go ahead.”  
  
          He grumbled at her ridiculous priorities and grabbed his wine from beside the bed, sitting at the table. He drank, but did not break his fast until she finally finished and joined him, her hair falling in thick, soft waves. Sansa sipped at the honey milk daintily. She didn’t even realize how hungry she truly was until she nibbled on the edge of one of the lemon cakes. When the two of them had eaten their fill, there was still plenty left over.  
  
          “Have you seen her yet?” she asked him.  
  
          “The baby?” Sansa nodded. He shook his head, “No. Maester said he’d send the woman down with her.”  
  
          “Oh, good. I wonder what she looks like.” She sounded excited, not speaking directly to Sandor necessarily.  
  
          He shrugged, “You, I hope.”   
  
          He said it so sincerely that Sansa was taken aback. “Why? You don’t think the baby would come out with burns, do you?” She’d meant it as a jest, but his mouth tightened and she immediately regretted it. He looked away so his good side faced her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean- I was just…it was a joke. A poor one.” she said softly, cursing herself.  
  
          “Don’t be. I know what I look like.”  
  
          Sansa sighed wearily, “ _Stop_ that. You do not. You’re very handsome. You…I don’t know. You only see your burns, but that’s not what you _look_ like, you know. I’m sorry. It…it was a stupid jape…I wouldn’t have made it if I thought it had any truth.” She wasn’t lying to him. She’d never told him how handsome she really thought he was, those were more private thoughts, the sort of things she giggled to girlfriends but was not so forward as to openly express, even to him.She knew he thought he looked horrible, but somehow she just assumed he’d gotten over it, that her being with him would be proof that he wasn’t so horrible. It was a silly, naïve assumption.   
  
            _Maybe I should have told him more,_ she thought. He glanced over at her like he didn’t believe her and she raised her eyebrows earnestly. “Truly,” she said, reaching her hand across the table for him to take, trying to mend things. His mouth twitched, and after a moment he took her hand, giving it a squeeze. Sansa was relieved.  
  
          “Nothing to be sorry for, little bird. Just the wine talking.” It wasn’t entirely dishonest.  
  
          Sansa didn’t argue with him. “I think dark hair would be nice,” she mused, looking at Sandor. He shrugged, but seemed less sullen. _I am learning, at least_ , she thought to herself. It wasn’t so entirely long ago that it seemed everything she did made him sour.

  
          When Maggie came in with Septa Mariyah and the baby, Sansa and Sandor had all but forgotten their little spat. Both seemed to know it had been petty. To Sandor, the baby just looked like a misshapen fleshy ball of pink wrapped in blankets and furs…he hadn’t even realized it _was_ the baby, at first, until Sansa had let out a soft cry and went to the wet nurse.   
  
          This was not Sandor’s territory. He stood back and watched as Maggie passed the bundle off to Sansa, who seemed mesmerized. All the Hound could think of was how huge the wet nurse’s teats were. Sansa’s had grown, too, but not like this woman. She reminded him of the hound bitches at Clegane’s Keep who could hardly walk, dragging litters of pups by their swollen teats. _You arse, stop looking at the woman’s teats, go to the babe_ he scolded himself. _You should feel something._  
  
          “Oh, she’s _gorgeous_ ,” Sansa cooed. _  
  
_She sank down at the edge of the bed, cradling the swaddled baby. Sandor peered down at it from where he stood, and wrinkled his nose. It wasn’t what he would call ‘gorgeous’. The baby’s head was all that could be seen, the rest engulfed in blankets. Its face was pink and puffy, its eyes looked like they were swollen shut. A few fine wisps of dark fuzz were all that made up its hair. He couldn’t tell if the baby was asleep or not, but it kept making bizarre gurgling and sniffling sounds. Sansa finally seemed to remember his presence and looked up at him, positively beaming. Sandor felt nothing. _You should be feeling something._  
  
          “Do you want to hold her?” She asked.  
  
          He shifted uncomfortably. He held _swords_ , he didn’t know how to hold a _baby_. He saw the septa yelling at him for doing it all wrong, he saw himself dropping it, he saw Sansa upset at him. _She’ll be able to tell. If you hold it. She’ll know you don’t love it._ He shook his head. “Later. You go ahead.”  
  
          She didn’t protest. She seemed to be a natural at this, whatever it was, and the baby seemed content enough. She cooed and rocked slowly, touched the edge of the baby’s face with her finger, wiped away the drool with the corner of the blanket…  
  
          “I’ll be back. Going to find someone to take the buggering lilies,” he rasped. He shuffled out before anyone had time to argue, or scold him for his language.

          Sansa looked after Sandor as he left, disappointed. She felt inadequate. “He didn’t seem pleased.”  
  
          Both Maggie and Septa Mariyah immediately protested this, the septa offering up her wisdom. “My lady, it takes men _time_ to get used to these things…what comes natural to us does not come naturally to them.”  
  
          “Men are scared of babies,” Maggie agreed rather bluntly. “Like they’re scared of love, at first. What makes them vulnerable. What overpowers them, especially when it’s something so small- a woman, a child. You know, my lady, I’ve nursed my share of babes not mine own, and what I’ve seen is the softer the man, the faster he falls in love. Your Lord of Winterfell, he’s not a soft man.”  
  
          Sansa smiled thoughtfully, feeling a bit better, “No, I suppose not.”  
  
          The septa sat beside her on the bed, giving her wrist a squeeze, “You wait, my lady, when he finally warms up to the little girl- you will _long_ for the days where he left you alone with her!” The women all laughed at that. Two serving girls entered, both of them freezing at the sight of the baby and giving small gasps, their hands going to their hearts in near perfect unison. Sansa smiled, and they curtsied, giving their blessings and quickly getting to their work. Each carried one bouquet of lilies in each hand, leaving one behind by the hearth.  
  
          “Is there anything else you’ll be needing, m’lady?” asked one of the girls.  
  
          “No, thank you…do you know where my lord husband ran off to?”  
  
          The girl shook her head, “I’m sorry, m’lady. He gave us our orders, and might be he went to the kitchens?”  
  
          “Thank you,” Sansa nodded, and the girls were gone.  
  
          She looked at Maggie, “What…ah, what of feeding her? If… if, I wanted to…?”  
  
          She was relieved that Maggie did not wait for her to finish while she struggled to find the proper words. She seemed to know exactly what Sansa meant, “Well of course, if you want to, my lady. Maester says give it a few days, since you’ve had milk of the poppy and all, but if you’re feeling the urge then you just come by. Never understood highborn women, pardon my lady, who carry a child in them for so long then want nothing to do with it once it’s born. Especially those Southron ladies… made of weaker stuff, if you’ll allow it. Some women, it makes them nervous, but don’t you worry yourself over it. It’s good for the baby to have time with her real mum.”  
  
          Sansa pressed her lips together in a shy grin, “Thank you,” she said sincerely.

          Sansa had wanted to wait until Sandor returned before leaving the baby, but over an hour passed, and the baby became increasingly restless. Soon she was wailing, and so Sansa reluctantly returned her to the wet nurse so she could tend to her. She had Septa Mariyah find some serving girls to take the food away and bring the leftovers up to Maggie, who stayed with the baby in Sansa’s old bedroom.   
  
          Then she was alone, and felt incredibly lonely. She wanted to cry, but she forced herself to keep the tears in. _You are not a child anymore._ She wanted to curl up under the covers and sleep away the aching. Instead, she made herself stand and get dressed. She opened up the windows, and breathed in the fresh, crisp air, and hummed idly to herself _The Winter Maid_ in the hopes that she might distract her mind from its sad thoughts and her body from its pains. Not yet feeling quite up to taking a walk, already rather tired from just the minor effort of getting dressed and having company, she simply sat staring out the window at the falling snow. She wanted Sandor to come back, but she wasn’t worried about him, at least. 


	41. Chapter 41

          The feast to celebrate the birth of young Catelyn of Winterfell was the liveliest the castle had seen since its rebuild. Northern Lilies were scattered all along the floors and tables in the Great Hall, flags of yellow, black, and grey were strung from wall to wall, and it seemed there was not a trouble to be found. Singers sang and dancers danced, musicians played and wine flowed freely. Sansa thought the gifts and blessings might never end.  
  
          Walla had worked herself into a frenzy making preparations, and two kitchen boys quit in the week leading up to it. Still, it had paid off. Aurochs meat was served, dripping in grease, while the horns served as table decorations. Charred root vegetables, spiced potatoes, wine-fried bacon, and squash mash were all served in heaping portions. There was a thick barley stew made from the parts of the aurochs that most were not likely to eat if they were able to recognize them. Imported dates, candied citrus, and caramelized sweet-apples seasoned with cinnamon were all hits among those with a sweet tooth, and men placed their bets on who could spit the date seed the farthest. There was such an abundance of food that those residing in Winter Town were granted leave to help themselves to the leftovers.  
  
          The baby, now aged at five weeks, was not actually present at the feast thrown to honor her nameday. She was brought out only briefly to be seen, and whisked away quickly with the loud cheers, back to the safe quiet of her room where she did not risk being hit in the face by a stray flying date pit. Sansa would stop by a few times a week to feed the baby herself, but for the most part she allowed Maggie to do what she did best. Sandor still kept his distance, but Sansa had learned to be more patient with him. He was much more at home among grown men and a large cup of mulled wine.  
  
          When _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ reverberated through the walls, half the hall was cheering for the Lord and Lady of Winterfell to come dance. Sansa looked eager, but the Hound shook his head, “You go ahead, little bird,” he rasped.  
  
          He saw her open her mouth to protest, and knew she would sit at his side, fueling his guilt for the rest of the night if he did not make himself clear. He gave her a nudge, “ _Go,_ ” he growled.  
  
          Though somewhat disappointed he would not join her, she stood as he nudged her and laughed as the crowd pushed forward Ser Andell, whose face was red with wine and cheer. He was one of the biggest men in Winterfell, though he didn’t come close to the Hound. Still, he was the perfect second place candidate to play the bear, with his brown hair thick and wooly with one of the fullest beards of any man Sansa had ever seen. They danced and danced while the crowd clapped, then Sansa was handed off so others might have the honor. By the time the song was over, after having been played three times at the insistence of the group, Sansa’s face was flushed and she was clutching her stomach in laughter.  
  
           Courteous as ever, she thanked each one of her dance partners with a glowing smile before returning to her grumbling husband’s side. Knowing his tendencies and the potential he had to brood all night about this, she quickly wrapped her arm around his and gave him a kiss on the cheek for the hall to see, plenty of people whistling and cheering in drunken jest.  
  
          “Hmph,” he said, but the corners of his mouth twitched and Sansa knew this was the closest thing to a smile she could hope for. She spent the rest of the night leaning against him, nibbling at the bittersweet citrus rinds, and enjoying the festivities from afar. She did not want for anything more.  
  
          Among the gifts received at the celebration, easily the most popular and extravagant came in the form of two hauntingly beautiful lion pelts. They were brought wrapped in crimson velvet, then unfurled before the hall, eliciting gasps and a few whoops from those in attendance. Both pelts were of full grown male lions with thick manes, stuffed heads, and black stones for eyes. The stitching and level of detail was exquisite, and each dark claw had been carefully reattached to the paws, causing them to click eerily against each other when the pelts were moved. Sansa gave a questioning look to Maester Redwin and Lord Barton, both of whom had been keeping track of gifts. Maester Redwin was the first to answer, carefully unrolling a piece of parchment with a letter written on it.  
  
          “My lady. These were sent from Essos from an anonymous friend whom evidently has not forgotten the casualties your house suffered in the hands of Lord Walder Frey. He claims to have been present at King’s Landing when word of the massacre of your mother, your brother and his men, arrived. The bulk of the letter reads, ‘After the fateful wedding, the Lannisters boasted of having two wolf pelts. It seems a fitting gift now, with two Lannisters dead, that the House Stark should be able to boast of having two lion pelts.’”  
  
          Maester Redwin cleared his throat, then passed the letter down to Sansa, who took it in trembling fingers. She read the note over and over, desperately searching for some clue as to whom the sender was. It was in a scrawl she did not recognize, and there was nothing more than what Maester Redwin had read aloud. _Two Lannisters dead. Perhaps Tyrion is still…_  
  
          Sandor braced himself, _she’ll be crying again_. But when Sansa looked up, there were no tears, no red eyes. Just a somewhat amused half-smile on her face as she stared at the pelts. “You’re bloody _smiling?_ ” he asked her, in disbelief. They had no idea who could have sent these, and though they seemed a true and clearly valuable gift, the intentions behind them were not obvious. They could just as easily be a threat.  
  
          Sansa bit her lip and gave him a sheepish look, “Oh, they’re _awful_ , really, but…I don’t know. I suppose…it feels rather nice.” She looked next to Lord Barton, “If you would, please find a suitable place for them…People should want to look upon them, I imagine.”  
  
          The pelts were rolled back into their velvet wrappings and whisked out of the hall and despite Sandor’s reluctance to accept the gift, he found Sansa’s reaction to be amusing and oddly…comforting, although he wasn’t sure that was the right word. When the couple retreated from the hall, Sansa went to see Catelyn one more time before heading off to bed, while Sandor patiently awaited her return in their room.


	42. Chapter 42

          When Sandor finally spent some time with the baby, it was two moons after her birth. His excuse was that his duties in Winterfell were keeping him far too busy. Sansa had pleaded with him for weeks, and the maester, septa, and countless others had all tried their hand at convincing him to see the child, but he would have none of it. He would not be bullied into this.   
  
               Every time he thought to go, he felt sick. He saw the misshapen, crusty-eyed, pink face in his memory, he saw Sansa’s smile, and he still felt nothing. The babe seemed to get more misshapen in his memory with each passing day. He would go in his own time. But finally, after weeks of avoiding, he relented. He went to see the child, and before he could refuse, Maggie had practically forced the crying bundle into his arms.  
  
               Sandor tensed, trying to find a good way to hold the child. He’d seen the women do it, but it felt odd to hold it like a woman. Maggie gave him instruction, and he ended up holding her with her head supported by his palm, body lying along his forearm. He looked down at her, and couldn’t recognize her from the alien bundle Sansa held so many weeks ago. She was still tiny, tiny enough that he needed only one arm to hold her easily, but at the same time she seemed _so_ much bigger than before. She had been crying, legs kicking out of synch, tiny fists balled up tight, but when Sandor had finally gotten a feel for holding her properly and looked down at her, she stopped her bawling almost immediately.  
  
           It seemed she was just as fascinated with him as he was with her. She looked like a real child now, and she was, truly, beautiful. Catelyn stared up at him with big, blue doe eyes, the same as her mother’s. She had fat cheeks and soft, dark hair, and a nose that looked like a button. Her toothless mouth hung agape while she took in the new sight in front of her. Then, she reached up from beneath the folds of the blankets she was wrapped in, stretched her arm up and grabbed at the open air, then brought her pudgy fingers right to her sticky mouth with a grin and a squeal. Something took hold of Sandor then, as his fierce eyes looked down at the baby, his daughter. _My daughter_. _Catelyn._ He felt guilty for not having come sooner, for he could no longer remember what he’d been so afraid of.  
  
          He could feel two other pairs of eyes staring at him as well, so he gritted his teeth and looked away from baby Catelyn, handing her to Sansa who said, “Well?” with a smile.   
  
          His arm felt much colder now where the baby had been, so he folded his arms across his chest, “Hmph. Little Cat’s chubby enough to be a bloody pig,” he grumbled. Maggie looked almost appalled, but Sansa’s smile only grew bigger, and Sansa was what mattered. _She knows._ Knowing he had been understood he left them with a nod and went to hunt down Walla for some mulled wine. _Hope she doesn’t live up to her name_ , he thought, half serious, _Everyone knows that cats don’t like dogs._

 

  
          From then on, Sandor allowed Sansa to bring baby Catelyn into their bedroom, and after a time he got comfortable with the idea of her sleeping in the bed with them. She seemed to sleep through the night without issue, never waking, making so little sound that sometimes he forgot she was even there. She seemed infinitely more fascinated with her father, whom she saw much less than Sansa, and as a result Sandor had gotten used to her grabbing handfuls of his hair in her small fists and tugging with surprising force for such a small thing. He’d also grown accustomed to her touching his face, and had become better at dodging when her fingers went for his eyes or nostrils, to Sansa’s amusement.  
  
          It was not an uncommon sight for the serving girls to find the three of them sitting together in bed, Sandor and Sansa shoulder to shoulder, with the babe in between them like a perfectly staged painting. What had once been extremely rare for anyone to see now became somewhat less uncommon, though no less bizarre— glimpsing the fearsome Hound and Lord of Winterfell in the moments where he cast aside those titles and just became the affectionate, loving, maybe even _happy_ Sandor, a father and a husband. As different as their means of showing affection were, there was no denying that Sandor adored his daughter just as much as Sansa.  
  
          He often did not want to let her go. Her initial reaction to him had been a priceless, unexpected one which had endeared her to him forever, a moment he would not soon forget. Sandor had expected to be met with tears, screams, and fear when the baby finally saw him. Surely something so tiny and innocent would react like that, she wouldn’t have the manners to stop herself. Contrary to what he believed, she seemed to see what others could not, and instead he had been met, without hesitation, with a true, honest smile. For the first time since he was six years old, someone had looked at his face and had not seen his burns.


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _An "old friend"_

          “…Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord of Harrenhall and Lord Protector of the Vale. He waits outside the gates with fifty men in his company. He begs entrance to Winterfell…he is requesting audience with you.”  
  
           Sansa stood with her pretty hair in soft braids, blinking at Maester Redwin as if he’d spoken in some foreign tongue. Memories from years ago resurfaced, and her heart gave a bizarre pang at the mention of such an old name, a name from her past. Sansa had to remind herself to respond. _He is waiting for your answer._ She did not know what to say. “Lord Baelish…but, what does he want with Winterfell?” She shifted little Catelyn’s weight in her arms, holding her close and tried to remember him, tried to recall any memories of him. All she saw was him whispering to the queen.  
  
          “Nothing with Winterfell that he would divulge to us, my lady. He says he wants to see you, specifically.”  
  
          Sansa was puzzled. _Littlefinger…what could he want?_  She knew he grew up with her mother, but that was years ago, and he had never been close with her at King’s Landing. He seemed to have been closer with her aunt than anyone else- at least, close enough to marry her. “Did he say anything else?”  
  
          Maester Redwin shook his head, “Only that he knew you, and that he is a friend. He says he is willing to leave his guards outside, if you will speak with him alone, but I do not think that wise, my lady- if you will allow me to speak frankly.”  
  
          Sansa nodded, “No. It would not be safe, nor proper. Where is my lord husband?”  
  
          “Out on the hunt, my lady. He left at first light- he should not be long returning, now.”  
  
          Sansa handed Maggie the babe, who was growing restless in her arms and distracting Sansa from her thoughts. “Very well…let him in, I suppose, so he’s not left waiting. Tell him…allow him five guards. I will see him in the Great Hall, please see that there are knights posted there.”  
  
          Maester Redwin gave a small bow and headed off to carry out the orders. Sansa turned and gestured Maggie to come along with her to the hall. Catelyn had been well-behaved today, and on these days Sansa kept her near. The baby was almost like a good luck charm to her, she felt, a reminder of her own strength. A reminder that she was _loved._ When Catelyn was absent, she felt distracted and anxious.  
  
          In the Great Hall, Sansa settled into one of the cushioned chairs, Maggie by her side. When she was ready, she took back Catelyn and sat her in her lap, facing out at the hall, making soft little _bah bah bah_ sounds to herself as she played with one of the small hounds’ tooth buttons on her mother’s sleeve. When the doors opened in an upswept flurry of snow, her sounds stopped, and she watched with wide eyes as Maester Redwin entered with Lord Petyr Baelish and his guards, all unarmed. Maester Redwin went to sit at Sansa’s side, and Petyr Baelish stepped forward and gave a deep bow, though his eyes stayed eerily fixed on her.  
  
          He looked much older than Sansa remembered him. His brown hair had dulled with faint streaks of grey, his face looked somewhat more lined. _Was he always so small?_ He had always been on the skinnier side, but surrounded by Winterfell’s massive walls and flanked by weaponless guards, Sansa was sure Littlefinger had never seemed smaller to her. His face was still unreadable to Sansa, and he spoke with a softness that made her uneasy.   
  
          A familiar brass mockingbird was pinned to his deep blue doublet, that seemed to be staring at her just as intently as he was now, “My lady, what an honor it is to see you again, after all these years. And to see Winterfell restored to such glory…another honor.” His eyes flicked down to the child in Sansa’s lap, and for a split second his nose seemed to twitch.  
  
          “Lord Baelish, the honor is mine,” Sansa replied, her ladies’ armor worn proudly.  
  
          “Lady Sansa, you have achieved so much…I cannot say I am surprised. I am sorry I was not able to come sooner…as you know, I am Lord of the Vale, now…an endlessly busy occupation…Young Lord Robert sends his deepest regrets at not being able to make the journey North to see you, as well. I’m afraid the cold does not agree with him… but, ah, it seems your young one has a taste for it? She is…beautiful, she has your eyes.” He spoke with a sly smile and a voice that told no tales. His pauses told everything.  
  
          Sansa nodded curtly, “You are too kind, Lord Baelish.” Her hand pulled around young Catelyn’s middle gently, “She is named-“  
  
          “-Catelyn, yes…after your mother. A fitting name, I think. I was… _deeply_ upset when I heard of your mother’s passing…as you know, Catelyn and I were…quite close. Had I known what was planned, I would have helped her, would have warned her…as it is, I am sorry that was not the case.”  
  
          _Does he intend to be the only one to speak?_ “As am I,” Sansa said, pointedly, a bit peeved that he would interrupt her. _He thinks he is being clever_. “Might I inquire as to why you have come all this way, Lord Baelish?”  
  
          Littlefinger cleared his throat, “Yes. Well, ah…I must admit, I had hoped we might speak alone, Lady Sansa. As you can see, my guards and I are unarmed…I _did_ tell your maester I would happily leave them behind.”  
  
          “My lord, what you can say to me, surely you can say to this room. There is no one here, save for knights, a wet nurse, a maester, and a babe…I hope you will forgive me, but they are unlikely to be concerned with what you have to say.”  
  
          Littlefinger shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a slight movement. “Of course, my lady…I hope I have not unsettled you…I only hoped, since _Lady_ Catelyn and I were so close, you might feel…similarly. I have always considered myself to be your friend...” he cleared his throat when he did not see a change, and he tried another angle, “I was married to your aunt Lysa, as I’m sure you know- we are _family_ now, you and I, are we not, my lady?”  
  
          She raised her brow. _My friend? Family? What has he ever done to deserve those titles? He still thinks you are a child- he speaks to you as a father would a child._ He spoke to her as if she had nothing to say.She chose her words with equal care as he did,“I am…honored, my lord, to call you…family. However, I hope you will forgive me for my precautions. I have not seen you for many years and when last we met, you were allied with the Lannisters.” The baby was beginning to fidget once more, grasping Sansa’s fingers and tugging at her hand. Before he could say whatever meaningless excuses he had thought of to explain himself and his past allegiances, Sansa continued. “While I cannot oblige your request, perhaps you will accept my invitation to dine with us this evening…You are welcome to Winterfell, and your men will be fed and housed as well, though they must remain outside the gates. Perhaps, in a less formal setting, you might be more comfortable?” She prepared herself for his monologue.  
  
          “…Of course, one can never be too cautious-“  
  
          There were muffled noises from outside, and the doors burst open once more, caught from slamming by guards, sending up another swirling haze of snowflakes, and startling everyone. Backlit by the bright, reflecting snow, stood the Hound. The maester and Maggie both rose out of respect, and baby Catelyn started to laugh, reaching her hands out and grasping at the empty air as if to reach him across the hall. He said not a word to the surprised Littlefinger, walking past without so much as a glance in his direction. He folded his heavy arms across his chest and stood beside Sansa, not bothering to sit. At least he did not openly question her, he knew better than that.   
  
          Sansa knew she would hear of this later from him, but she allowed him his little show for now…she had to admit the look on Littlefinger’s face had been quite satisfying. Maggie and Maester Redwin both sat back down once the Hound took his place.  
  
          Littlefinger was staring, and seemed to remember himself just then, giving the slightest bow. “Ah, what a…surprise, to have our paths cross in such a way, my old friend. I am honored to-“  
  
          The Hound snorted, “You are no friend of mine.” Sansa fought the urge to give him a look— whether it be a look of admiration or a look of warning. Catelyn began to fidget and squirm when Sandor did not give her the attention she craved.  
  
          Littlefinger raised an eyebrow, “It has been a long time, since we have seen each other, yes,” he said, with a smile as he began to spin his words, “I was just telling your, ah, Lady Sansa, how I take _full_ responsibility for my extended absence after hearing of her...triumphant return to Winterfell. Before then, she seemed to have…disappeared, for a while. I searched for her _extensively_ during that time…After all, what have we if not family?”  
  
          Sandor would not arm himself with the same courtesies as Sansa. Instead, he stood as a gargoyle, keeping steady watch, not speaking another word. Sansa spoke for him, before he could damage or insult further, “I hope you will forgive us, Lord Baelish. As you can see, my lord husband has returned from his hunt, and our young one is getting restless…I hope you will excuse us, so we may be well rested to entertain you as our guest tonight.”  
  
          Littlefinger pressed his lips into a toothless smile, looking from the Hound to Sansa, “But of course, Lady Sansa… _Lord_ Clegane must be _so very_ tired. I look forward to supping with you tonight, my lady.” He spoke only to Sansa, giving her another deep bow, maintaining eye contact with her. He only broke it to give the Hound a curt nod before turning. He snapped at his guards to follow him out as the doors opened before him, his heeled boots clicking on the stone floors until they met the snow and were silenced.  
  
          Sansa leaned over to Maester Redwin, “Please make sure there is a place for lord Baelish tonight, and see that his guards are well fed.” She took Sandor’s mailed hand and gave the baby a soft kiss on the top of her head, “Maggie, would you take her?”  
  
          Sandor helped Sansa up, and the two of them retreated from the Hall.  Sandor had the good graces to wait until they were well out of earshot of Maggie, Maester Redwin, and the guards before confronting her, “What is he doing here?”  
  
          “I don’t know. _Truly_. I don’t know what he wants. He- he just showed up at the gates. ”  
  
          “You shouldn’t have let him in.”  
  
          “For what? Because you don’t like him? He is unarmed.”  
  
          “He’s a Lannister. Everything he’s got, he’s got from them.”  
  
          “He married my aunt Lysa, I can’t simply-“  
  
          The Hound stopped and turned to her angrily. “He _killed_ your aunt Lysa, girl-“  
  
          “ _Girl_? Do not call me girl, you have-“  
  
          “Then don’t act like one, don’t be stupid, Sansa, it’s all a game to him, having him here puts us all in danger,” he growled. Why couldn’t she _see_? She wanted to wine and dine him, he would just as soon open Littlefinger’s old scar, slicing him from neck to navel and leaving him to bleed in the snow.   
  
          Whatever game Littlefinger was playing, it could be ended swiftly with a sword. Sandor could win at that game, his game, but he could not compete in Littlefinger’s. The mockingbird, he sang the same songs as Sansa, but he’d been singing his songs since long before Sansa was even born. As much as he loved Sansa, he didn’t think she could compete in these games either.  
  
          _Or perhaps they would make a fine pair. Two birds, singing their songs._ Baelish had money, he had lands. _He has a face that’s whole._   
  
          Sansa did not dignify him with her tears. He could be so frustrating, so petty sometimes, and for nothing! After being together for years, after a child, he still seemed to believe she would run off at any moment like a stupid little girl. She didn’t _trust_ Littlefinger, but she felt no reason to fear him either, not here in Winterfell, not unarmed. Sandor, on the other hand, was someone she trusted entirely and feared desperately. “He is our guest. He _could_ be our ally. You...you _know_ I love you, but, Sandor, _please_ do not put us in danger by being so open and, and _careless_ about your hate.”  
  
          Sandor looked like he might continue, but they were both distracted by an elated scream from baby Catelyn. Maggie was standing over her, holding the girl up by her mittened hands as she walked clumsily in the snow. Her whole body leaned and swayed as she attempted to maneuver her legs in front of each other, stumbling each time she put her weight on the snow which collapsed under her feet. Each time her feet became tangled, Maggie would pull her up and set her down again.   
  
          When the wet nurse noticed Sansa and Sandor watching, she turned Catelyn towards them with a smile, bending down to whisper something in Catelyn’s ear and waving her hands, making Catelyn giggle. Sansa smiled and waved back, giving Sandor a nudge for his stark resistance. He grunted, scratching the back of his head in frustration.   
  
          He left Sansa’s side, long strides taking him over to his daughter in only a handful of steps. Sandor bent his knee into the snow, not acknowledging the wet nurse (who was now quite used to his character) as he scooped the grinning babe into his arms “Come here, little Cat,” he grumbled. Maggie gave a nod, as if to say _you know where to find me_ , and Sandor carried her back to Sansa, both mother and child looking at him with such adoration as could be matched by no one.   
  
           They could discuss Littlefinger later- they would not reach an agreement now, and he would only find himself frustrated if things continued, so he turned to one of the few things that pleased him most in this world…even if it was something that gave him equal amounts of grief, at times, though all his own doing. She met him with a hand on his back, and her head leaning on his bicep, taking Catelyn’s pudgy hand in her own and cooing softly. Sandor’s lips carved themselves into a twisted smile across his face, and for a few minutes he felt better.   
  
          The babe grasped at his leathers, wriggling around in a clumsy attempt to hoist herself up. When the three of them lay in bed together, she was wont to pull and shimmy herself across their bodies like a living playground, and they had to keep close watch on her to make sure she wouldn’t tumble. Outside, while he was upright, she didn’t quite yet have the strength needed to pull herself up, but her extraordinary efforts were very amusing.  
  
          Sansa’s hand gave his forearm a squeeze, one which he might not have felt through his layers had he not seen her do it. She gave him a soft smile, and he gave his head a nod towards their quarters. She took his silent suggestion, and they began to walk back.  
  
          For those few minutes, he felt better. Just a few minutes, until Lord Barton popped out from behind a conveniently placed stack of crates, stopping Sandor in his tracks. Sansa was laughing gaily at the incoherent blubbering sounds the babe was making, but she stopped at the sight of Barton, giving him a polite, smiling, “My lord,” in greeting. Sandor greeted the fat-faced man in bright yellow robes with an unfriendly scowl.   
  
          “Oh-ho! My lord, my lady, so terribly sorry to interrupt, but I _must_ discuss…”  
  
           But Sandor had already tuned him out, cursing the world and all its imaginary gods for stealing such a sweet moment from him. As Sansa spoke with the fat lord, he felt the sweet grasp of happiness loosen its grip and seep away. By the time they were finished with what was no doubt a trivial conversation, the babe was fidgeting uncomfortably and whimpering— the closest thing to crying that she normally did, only furthering his frustration by upsetting the quiet and making him feel inexplicably guilty. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got happy enough with this chapter to post it, but I am still working out Littlefinger's dialogue. I thought it would be interesting to see what an encounter with him might be like, but I'm still not totally satisfied with him. As always thank you all so much for your beautiful comments and feedback, this story has gone on for far longer than I thought it would, and I'm shocked that so many of you have continued reading!


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A lie_

          Dinner with Petyr Baelish could not have been more tensely layered. He’d made a point of sitting closest to Sansa, avoiding the Hound as much as possible. He had arrived with a calculated lateness that was long enough to be noticed, but not so long as to be rude, citing ‘very important business’ as the reason for his tardiness. Sandor, on the other hand, had made a point of being as imposing and intimidating a presence as possible, while Sansa did her best to appease both by sticking to her courtesies and keeping all at arm’s length.  
  
          This simmering tension was not lost on the other dinner guests, who seemed particularly interested in what their conversations held. The only way they could look less subtle was if they all held ear trumpets. Petyr mentioned ‘family’ so often it made Sansa feel ill every time he uttered it and as the evening grew later he began to test the limits of his familiarity, sometimes dropping titles altogether. Sandor seemed to struggle with whether he should be particularly possessive to establish his status, but risk looking weaker for his affections, or whether he should sit like a soulless soldier whose only mission was to stare Baelish down.  
  
          In the end, he settled for a healthy mixture of both. He kept a hand on Sansa at all times- holding her hand, or at her waist if her hands were occupied. Thankfully, she allowed this, and was kind enough to absently return the gestures, giving his hand a squeeze as if to silently reassure him. Of what, he did not know. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Sansa…he _did_ , but she was still younger than him, and he was younger than Littlefinger, and _she_ , in her youth, had a tendency to trust too easily, less able to look ahead and see the potential consequences.  
  
          He hated Littlefinger’s presence, the reminder of King’s Landing, all the plots and schemes and moving parts that Sandor didn’t care to try to figure out. A reminder of the establishments he used to frequent, some of which Littlefinger owned. _She knows you fucked whores, surely. It’s no secret. The girl’s not that naïve._ But then, he found himself feeling uneasy despite what he told himself. He didn’t know Littlefinger’s intentions, but he could say damning things about Sandor if his intentions were less than kind. _Nothing Sansa wouldn’t already know._ _Not a man alive who’s not fucked a whore._ One thing he knew for sure was that Littlefinger looked out for himself alone.  
  
          “I thought, perhaps, when young Catelyn is older, you might consider having her wed to young Robert Arryn…it would mean she would be Lady of the Vale, an honor, as you know…”  
  
          The Hound snorted, but it was Sansa responded, squeezing his hand, “I…We are honored by your proposal, Lord Baelish, but…Catelyn is- she is still a baby, perhaps now is not the time to discuss betrothals.” Sandor remembered the sickly child from back when Jon Arryn was Hand. Riddled with fits and attached by the mouth to his plump mother’s teat, well past his time. The strongest of a litter of stillborns and miscarriages. _An invalid little shit._  
  
          “Of course, Sansa, when the time comes.  But you should know there are many who are…eager, to take that honor. It would mean lands for your daughter. Impenetrable defenses. _Do_ consider.” He raised a spoonful of soup to his lips and sipped in a way that made Sansa’s stomach turn.  
  
          “Yes, of course…Thank you, Lord Baelish.”  
  
          He turned to Sandor with a sickly smile that never reached his eyes, “How…inspiring, that you have done so well for yourself, my friend.” Sansa gave his hand a tight squeeze, as if to warn him not to argue with the curtesy. “I heard you ran off with Lady Sansa after Joffrey’s fateful wedding, is that right?”  
  
          He was waiting for an answer to his question which he already knew. Sandor stared, stone-faced. To his annoyance, Sansa answered for him. “Yes,” she said simply.  
  
          This time, it was Petyr’s turn to maintain eye contact with the Hound, silently mocking him with his unsmiling eyes and a mouth that was only pretending. “And I suppose the rest, as they say, is history. I suppose you must feel _very_ fortunate, given that Lady Sansa is highborn...” He was walking a fine line and teetering dangerously close to the edge of outright insult…he knew this full well. Varys was called the Spider, but Petyr Baelish could spin his own webs with words. To regain the balance, he added, as if he meant to give a compliment the whole time, “A story of _true_ love, if I ever heard one…no doubt singers will honor it with _many_ songs.”  
  
          The rest of the evening continued in this same way, Littlefinger doing his dance while the Hound fumed and Sansa tried to appease both.

  
  
          If not for the crunching of snow, Sansa would have been caught off-guard when Petyr Baelish emerged from behind one of the courtyard columns. Even so, she was unsettled by it. _How long has he been there? Has he been waiting this whole time, to catch me alone?_ She straightened up and pulled her cloak more tightly around herself, folding her arms underneath it. “Lord Baelish.”  
  
          “Sansa. What a pleasant surprise, to find you alone.” He smiled, the corners of his mouth turning up while his eyes remained still. _I doubt it is a surprise._ “Might I accompany you on your walk?”  
  
          “I…was just returning to my chambers. I was only looking for one of the girls…” Sansa said. Her courtesies prevented her from saying ‘no’ outright. _He couldn’t have known I would come out…how long would he have waited if I hadn’t?  
  
_           Then, the thought struck her, _the fire._ Nobody had come to light a fire in their hearth, something that was normally done when they had the baby in the room with them. Sandor had been with the babe, so Sansa said she would fetch one of the girls to come. _But still, even if he had something to do with it, he couldn’t have known I would have come._ She shuddered to think what might have happened had it been Sandor, if Littlefinger would still have confronted him.  
  
          “Ah, no doubt your hound awaits you?” he asked, in his voice that sounded always like it threatened to become a whisper. The fact that Petyr Baelish struggled to call her husband by name, and seemed to steadfastly avoid any mention of _husband_ was not at all lost on Sansa.  
  
          “My husband.”  
  
          “Of course. Only a small joke.” Her lips twitched, it was as much of a smile as she could muster. He put a hand on her back as if to lead her, making her tense uncomfortably. “You needn’t be nervous, my dear… we are family. I cared for your mother very much, as you must know. No doubt she mentioned me before.”  
  
          Sansa did not know how to respond, as he led her into the courtyard, to one of the halls. Her mother had _never_ mentioned Petyr Baelish, but she couldn’t very well tell him that. He made her uneasy. “I…Thank you, Lord Baelish.”  
  
          “Please, call me Petyr. These titles are so _formal,_ are they not?” He waited for Sansa to nod before continuing, “Did you know your mother came to see me in King’s Landing? Oh, yes. Before your father lost his head.” Sansa cringed inwardly, “She spoke so…warmly, of you. I saw her again, before your brother married that girl…very plain, so unlike yourself. Catelyn was worried about you…she asked me to look after you. I promised her I would.”  _You did not keep that promise, if you ever made it_ she wanted to say. “I would have helped you, after Joffrey’s wedding…I was going to take you to the Eyrie, to live with your aunt Lysa but…well, someone else took you first.”  
  
          Sansa nodded again, tired of his tedious monologuing, “Sandor,” she said, emphasizing his name purposely. “Lord Baelish-“  
  
          “-Petyr. Please.”  
  
          Sansa ignored him, “Why have you come here?” She could not dance around the issue any longer. She was tired, and this was unsettling and inappropriate.  
  
          “I am worried for you, my dear. I have worried since you disappeared…worried that I would not be able to keep the promise I made to Catelyn,” he reached out and curled her finger around a lock of her hair, making Sansa pull her head away and take a step back. He ignored her reaction, “I feared the worst, when I heard no news of you. Your aunt Lysa was beside herself as well, _sick_ with grief. When I finally heard news of you, I was told the Hound had taken you, that he was with you at Winterfell-“  
  
          “-He did not take me, Lord Baelish. I went with him. He…he accompanied me. He saved me, and he protected me, when no one else did.” explained Sansa, getting impatient with him, and giving him as stern a look as she could muster. _No one else did._  
  
          He seemed to sense her tone, “Of course, my dear. I meant no offense. I imagine…it must have been so very difficult, with no family, no one to trust...anyone would have given up hope…But you must know he took you only to sell you…No doubt he changed his mind when he realized he could have you to himself…a priceless prize, and a castle. But he is….rough around the edges, Sansa. The Hound has always been a known drunk, a killer…and his brother, well…violence seems to run in the family. No one would blame you for being afraid, for not wanting to…upset him.”  
  
          “Lord Baelish, I am very happy here, in Winterfell, with my husband. I…I am sorry if he offended you…as you can imagine, we have encountered our fair share of people who wish us harm. He is only wary. I- I assure you it was nothing personal, his actions were done only in the interest of protecting me. I hope you can understand that, my lord.”  
  
          He looked annoyed, “Oh, of course, Sansa. Please don’t trouble yourself over it- I hope we can put all that unfortunate nastiness at supper behind us. I have already forgotten it. I only meant that, when a highborn lady, especially someone so… _beautiful_ , should end up with a mid-born man, _horribly_ disfigured, one must ask these questions. I do hope you can understand _that_ , my dear.” He put a hand on her shoulder, as if trying to be reassuring, “I understand if you are afraid…he is a fearsome one, for sure, however you need only say the word and I can take you back to The Vale. You will be _safe_ there. Your child, too, if you like. To live in the Eyrie. The Hound is no _lord_ , how long can he pretend with his rage, his temper, how long will it be before he _snaps_?”  
  
          Sansa recoiled from his touch, “Lord Baelish, please do not presu-“  
  
          “Call me _Petyr_ ,” he urged again, sounding almost annoyed, yet he still had that sickly smile pasted on his face.  
  
          Sansa pursed her lips briefly before speaking, “ _Petyr._ I am afraid you have mistaken the…circumstances under which I came to wed my lord husband. I have no need of your assistance in… in our personal matters- the three of us are very happy.” She was getting close to being rude, so she quickly continued, “I…I _deeply_ appreciate your concern for me, and I am sure Sandor would appreciate knowing you…you have taken such an interest in my well-being. However, it is…it is also very late, and I am afraid he would _not_ appreciate you having been waiting outside so near to our chambers. He is with our daughter now, and he will wonder where I’ve been if I don’t return to him.” She took great care to speak in a clear, even tone.  
  
          She would not be pushed into corners any longer, not by men such as Littlefinger, who spoke of her mother and tried to touch her with affections she only allowed of her husband. She did not want to make an unnecessary enemy for herself, but she didn’t think she could stand to be near Petyr Baelish for a moment longer. Sandor drank, but he was no drunk, not like King Robert. And Sandor was violent, but not a monster like Joffrey.  
  
          His dull eyes studied her face, and he was no longer smiling. The eyes flicked down to her lips, just for a moment, and his face twitched, as if he meant to move but stopped. Then, his lips curled into the slightest of smiles, eyes narrowing, “Of course, Sansa.” He gave a slight bow and extended his arm to her, as if he meant to lead her back to her chambers.  
  
          “Thank you, my lord, but I think it best if I see myself to my chambers. I hope…I hope I do not offend you in saying so, but it is quite late and I…I would not want anyone who might see us to presume anything.” She set her jaw, hoping, praying, he would leave her be.  
  
          He paused for a few painfully long seconds. _Don’t blink, do not look away_ she ordered herself. He gave a nod, lowering his arm, “But of course, my dear.” He was smirking, and he didn’t make a move to leave, so Sansa went ahead. “Ah, just one last thing, my lady.”  
  
          Sansa paused with a breath, _do not be rude._ “Yes?”  
  
          “I hope that you would not tell your _husband_ about the little chat we had tonight…I’ve known Sandor Clegane for many years. As I said, the Cleganes are known for their tempers, their violence. Some say they had a sister, the Mountain and the Hound. I won’t tell you what they say happened to her. I only hope you do not have to find out, firsthand.”  
  
          Sansa would not dignify him with a response, though her head was reeling with new questions. _That is what he wants. He is lying to you._ “Good night, Lord Baelish,” she said, rounding the corner. She glanced behind her when she reached the stairs, and seeing no one she practically ran up them to her door, feeling like arms might grab her if she stopped. When she grasped the handle, she paused. _Deep breath. You are alone._ She entered.  
  
          When the door opened, Sandor was already in bed, lying on his back with little Catelyn sitting on top of him, supported upright by him. The fire was cackling softly, evidently the girl had already come. When they looked at her, Sansa was already smiling.  
  
          “Ma-aaaa!” Catelyn laughed.  
  
          “Hello my sweet girl,” Sansa cooed, forgetting her troubles for the moment as she shed her cloak and took the girl into her arms, joining them on the bed. She tapped Cat’s nose with her finger and gave her a kiss on the forehead. In return, she giggled and put a clumsy hand on her mother’s mouth, fingers curling at her lips. Sansa laughed and gently pulled her grasping fingers away.  
  
          Sandor put a hand on the small of her back affectionately. “What kept you? The girl came and left.” Evidently Cat had put him in a better mood as well.  
  
          Sansa hadn’t even thought he would ask, but it only made sense. She should have been back well _before_ the girl had come to light the fire. “I just wanted a bit of air. Tonight was exhausting.” She tried to speak as though this was an insignificant fact, and hoped her would accept it.  
  
          If he heard her lie, he did not confront her about it just then. He simply gave her waist a squeeze. Sansa didn’t have the courage to look at his face to see if he believed her or not.  
  
          Sandor enjoyed the moments where he was only with Sansa and the babe, where he didn’t have to worry about anyone or anything else. Part of him wondered why they had to leave Essos in the first place…surely they could have found their own home there, eventually. They could have raised a family in Essos, and he wouldn’t have to rule, or worry about the giant chessboard that was Westeros. He didn’t mind being on the run so much. And if not on the run, he would just as soon close the gates of Winterfell and live in seclusion, just him and the girls. They were removed up North, but not as much as he would like, sometimes.  
  
          He looked up at Sansa and felt himself sigh. Much as he might want to sometimes, he wouldn’t be the one to cage her up again. She was happier at Winterfell than she’d ever been in King’s Landing or on the run. Her smiles were no longer rare. And certainly if he learned to love her, he could learn to love this cold castle in unforgiving lands. He could learn to accept ruling, to accept Lord Barton popping out of corners to ruin his precious moments. _Her. I’m happy with her,_ he thought.  
  
          The three of them played until their eyelids grew heavy, and then the three of them fell asleep together,  Sansa feeling infinitely more at ease in her husband's arms.


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Errors in judgement_

          The next day, when they broke their fast, Littlefinger was still there. _Of course he is. He would not run off in the night_ Sansa thought, steeling herself for whatever conversations might come. _He would not be so decent._ She wanted Cat with her, but she was glad she had Sandor. True to form, Littlefinger approached, extending a hand to Sansa, which she forced herself to let him take, and forced herself not to recoil as he pressed his lips to her fingers. The feel of his sparse facial hair made her squirm unpleasantly inside.  
  
          “Good morning, my lady,” he said, before turning to Sandor with a smirk, “Clegane.”  
  
          Sandor snorted, and Sansa made a point of wrapping her arm around his, “Good morning, my lord. I…trust you and your men were given suitable accommodations?”  
  
          “Oh yes, very suitable indeed.” He was weighing the both of them with his eyes, and when he was finished and sure conversation would not continue, he gave a bow.  
  
          Sansa found she did not have it in her to look at him while they ate, for fear she might not keep her food down. It was an uneasy feeling that brought back uncomfortable, painful memories from her time in the South, when she was never without eyes on her. She was glad, at least, that he kept his distance. _Thank the gods._  
  
            Finally, she pushed her plate away and looked to Sandor, who had evidently not lost his appetite. He was glaring at Littlefinger the whole time he ate, gnawing so violently that Sansa had to assume he was imagining that he was tearing Petyr limb from limb with every bite. Finally Sansa leaned against him to get his attention.  
  
          With a silent plea in her eyes, the two of them stood, forcing everyone in the room to stand with them, the scraping of wood on stone momentarily echoing in the halls. When they left, Sansa couldn’t help but look behind her at everyone who had now returned to their seats and, in particular, at Littlefinger. He saw her, and raised his cup, which made Sansa turn away swiftly.  
  
          “When is he leaving?” Sandor asked, when they had cleared the hall.  
  
          Sansa shook her head. “I…I don’t know. I—“  
  
          “—I want him gone.”  
  
          “Sandor, I can’t just- I can’t very well just ask him to leave, not after he’s come all this way, not after only one day.”  
  
          “You bloody well can. If you don’t, I’ll do it for you.” It was no offer. He’d left his gloves in the hall, and part of him wanted to go back and grab them, but he thought better of it, not wanting to face Littlefinger again.  
  
          Sansa pulled back a bit on his arm, about to retort, when a young boy of fifteen crunched through the snow toward them from one of the winding staircases. He looked nervously at the Hound and gave two quick, jerky bows. “M’lord, m’lady,” he said, and rushed to continue speaking before either of them had a chance to respond. “Lord Baelish sent me to find you, he wishes to speak with both’ you in private, says he has sensitive news.” He spoke quickly, and kept his eyes low to the ground.  
  
          Sansa shook her head, confused- he could have said something when they were breaking their fast. She tried not to roll her eyes at the theatrics of it all, “Please tell Lord Baelish that we… we shall look forward to hearing his news, and will send for him when we are…prepared to see him.”  
  
          The boy gave another bow, “Yes m’lady. Lord Baelish sends his thanks for having private audience with him last night, and looks forward to seeing both of you.”  
  
          The boy spoke so quickly, and ran off as soon as he was done, that Sansa almost didn’t process, but she felt Sandor tense against her. Her heart stopped. When she looked up at Sandor, he was glaring down at her with such ferocity that it stung.  
  
          Sandor was fuming. Her wide eyes looking up at him told all. He would have liked to chase after the boy, but he was long gone, and Sansa was here. And she had lied to him. She opened her mouth to protest, but he wrenched his arm away from her, causing her to stumble. _Private fucking audience._ With a snort that sent a puff of fog into the air, he stormed away with Sansa chasing desperately after him, caught between her desire to reach him, and her need to remain ladylike. She wouldn’t make a show of it, not publicly. _Not in the fucking light of day.  
  
_           “ _Please_ , wait-“  
  
          She was pleading with him, but he wanted none of it. He wanted to go somewhere that she could not follow, but instead found himself going towards their quarters. _No. Not here._ He could feel his anger boiling, and he needed to think. He couldn’t think right now. He slowed angrily in the courtyard, inadvertently allowing her to finally catch up, grabbing at his cloak. She looked like a child.  
  
          “Get off of me, girl.”  
  
          “Sandor, please, just _listen_ to me,” she pleaded, and he pulled his cloak, trying to pull it free but instead causing her to stumble after it, not releasing her grip.  
  
          “Stop clinging to me like a bloody fool,” he rasped, pushing her hands away as easily as brushing snow off a boot. He didn’t care much if it upset her. He felt hurt, and angry. There was no reason for her to lie, no reason unless she’d done something wrong. _Private audience. Bugger that. Bugger him._ With the way Littlefinger seemed to constantly drop hints to her and insults about him, he could guess what might have happened. _I’ll fucking kill him._  
  
          As if to read his thoughts, she forced herself in front of him, “Sandor, _listen_ to me, nothing happened, I’m sorry!”  
  
          For once, he didn’t correct her for her apologies, “So why the fuck didn’t you say something?” he spat, sidestepping her easily and walking past as she chased after him.  
  
          “Sandor it- it wasn’t like that, we only talked, _please_ , I just-“ She needed to stop talking- _he_ needed her to stop talking and step down. The more she protested the more guilty she seemed, the more desperate, and he wasn’t thinking straight. He tasted bile in his throat.  
  
           “I’m warning you, girl, leave me be.”  
  
            “Sandor, _slow down_ ,” she grabbed at him again and this time in his anger he grabbed back, yanking her by the arm and forcing her around a corner into a hallway. He pressed her back against the wall, restraining himself from slamming her back with his anger. She was squirming, so he grabbed her wrists in one hand and placed his palm flat against the wall beside her to lean over her.  
  
          “Well? Bloody tell me then. What did you _do_?” he rasped. _Violence seems to run in the family._  
  
          “ _Nothing_ , we- we only talked it was _nothing_ ,” her wrists and arm hurt, and she felt tears in her eyes. She was confused, everything seemed to happen all at once, and now the Hound had her backed into a corner, the same hallway Littlefinger confronted her in. She was trying to keep herself from crying out, for fear others might hear. _They can’t see him like this_.  
  
          Her head was reeling. She didn’t have time to work out what was happening, she needed to calm Sandor down. “If it was _nothing_ , then why did you fucking _lie_?” he growled, and Sansa closed her eyes, desperately trying to remember why she’d ever felt it necessary to lie. Her cheeks were hot and wet. “Stop fucking crying, and look at me. Look me in the fucking eye,” he rasped, and the hand on her wrists went to her shoulder, though it was not an act of comfort.  
  
          “I’m sorry, please, I can’t think-“  
  
          His hand moved so his thumb was pressed against the flat of her chest, just below her neck, while the rest of his fingers dug into the place between her neck and shoulder. What did she have to think about? _More lies._ She was shaking, “What did you _do?”_  
  
          “I don’t know, I don’t know- _nothing_ \- we just, he cornered me, he was just talking, and-“ she suddenly remembered, “He- it was _him_ , he _told_ me not to tell you,” her voice was shaking, and she was fighting to get the words out. She felt afraid, truly afraid of him. _How long will it be before he snaps?_ “Please, please let go of me, you’re scaring me-“ Her hands were gripping his wrist, his hand might as well have been wrapped around her throat, he was close enough already.  
  
          “Do you think me a bloody fool, girl? Why would he buggering tell you that, if nothing happened? Why would you fucking _listen_ to the cunt _?_ ” His voice was a low, raw growl to match her soft whimpers, both of them forced to rein in their voices. People would hear them.  
  
          “I don’t- I don’t know. I don’t know- don’t- maybe, maybe he was trying to get a rise out of you, to upset- _that’s_ what he wanted-“  
  
          Sandor could not stop seeing red, his ears were ringing. He wanted to believe her, it was a bloody good story, but it didn’t make _sense_. “ _Why did you listen to him_?” he growled again. He wanted to know what happened, he wanted to ask her true if he’d put his hands on her, but he didn’t think he could stomach the answer.  
  
          “You’re hurting me, _please_ , he- he only- he was _worried_ about me because- because my mother- and- he, he only wanted to help-“  
  
          “What the fuck did he want to _help_ with?”  
  
          “ _You_. He was only- he thought, he was worried- he wanted to- to know if you’d _forced_ yourself on me but- I told him you hadn’t- I _told him_ you would never and- I didn’t- I just didn’t’ want to-“  
  
          Sandor felt sick, like he’d been punched in the gut. She _pitied_ him, that’s what it was. She was either lying to him, or she pitied him too much to have told him the truth… _or feared me,_ he thought. All three options cut like a knife, and he realized he was still pinning her against the wall practically by her neck. He cursed himself and pulled away, wiping the back of his arm against his face. _Bugger._ He let his air out in an angry huff.  
  
          “…Please, may I go?” she asked, her voice nearly a whisper. That hurt him most, all three daggers twisting in his stomach. He pushed himself from the wall, not trusting himself to speak while he felt his insides crumbling. He left her there. He’d never wanted Petyr fucking Baelish here, in Winterfell, or anywhere near his little bird. And now he could do nothing for fear she would never forgive him.  
  
          _Might be it’s too fucking late already_. He wiped a shaking hand down his face, _Shit._ Sandor cursed himself all through the snow, until he reached the First Keep, climbing up the winding stairs. He wasn’t dressed properly for a walk in the cold, but it didn’t matter right now.  
  
           When he looked down at his hands, he saw the back of his right hand was scratched, raised and red where her nails had dug into him with the force of her weight. She hadn’t had the force enough to truly cut him, and part of he wished she had. _Shit. You buggering fool. You piece of shit._  
  
          If she hadn’t told Littlefinger anything, surely she would now. Sandor had received no pardons in Westeros, he was still a wanted man, though nobody had been actively sent to go after him- there were bigger matters in King’s Landing for people to worry about. But now… _Now she’ll leave. You’re no better to her than Meryn fucking Trant._  
  
          He began to doubt everything, and everything seemed to be falling apart. The fear with which she’d assured him, _I said you would never._ He knew the lies Littlefinger could spin, but perhaps in this he had the right of it. _I would, I did.  She didn’t have a choice, not really._ He’d stolen his first kiss from her like he’d stolen his song, and no doubt she thought she couldn’t refuse him. _Where would she have bloody gone without me, to her buggering grave.  
  
_           He still couldn’t tell whether she had been lying to him or not. She’d always been honest about things, things that _mattered_ , at least. He could see it in her eyes, watched her realize her mistake when the boy let slip that she’d been with Littlefinger, but after that he didn’t know. _You didn’t think twice when she said she’d been for a buggering walk._ Sandor leaned heavily against the wall, frustrated at himself for not having seen the lie. He wanted to believe her now, he didn’t _think_ she had been lying, but there was a gripping fear that gnawed at him that made him worry otherwise. The same fear he carried with him constantly, that he’d carried for years but that seemed to wax and wane.  
  
          Sandor wanted to go after her, but he’d done enough already, and his eyes stung. If he went to her, she would only run away faster. _I told her. I fucking told her to back off. It’s her bloody fault_ , he thought, without really believing it. Then, he thought again to go after Littlefinger, to drive a sword through him without restraint. He thought of killing every one of Littlefinger’s men, and leaving Littlefinger to travel home alone. Or the boy, he had no problem cutting the boy to ribbons either. No matter what he thought to do, none of it would make his little bird forgive him. She was what mattered, not himself. _Seven bloody hells, Sansa,_ he cursed to himself. _What have you done to me?_

 

 _  
_Sansa was trembling, and not from the cold. Her eyes stung and her bottom lip quivered, and she was scared, and angry, and shocked. Every thought she had was fighting to grab her focus, making her head throb. Sandor had been _fine_ , only moments ago, and out of nowhere… She didn’t want Littlefinger to be right. _He has never acted this way before, never. I lied to him. I deserved it._ Still, despite everything they’d been through together, in that moment he _truly_ was the Hound, and Sansa had been utterly helpless. Even when he tried to scare her in King’s Landing all those times, even when he’d held a knife to her throat at the Battle of Blackwater, he had never really _hurt_ her…he had never been out of control. _He didn’t mean to. Why did you lie to him?_

          With hands that were not moving as steadily as Sansa would have liked, she pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head, tugging the hem down and making her way up to their room. If she ran into anyone, she couldn’t be seen like this. When she made it up the stairs, which seemed infinitely longer than they had been just this morning, she pulled open her door and leaned back to close it. Then, she realized that if Sandor were to storm in and throw open the door, her back would surely snap. Uneasily, she bolted the door and went to her vanity, pulling down her hood and staring at herself in the looking glass.  
  
          How was it that she still looked like a little girl? Her left hand moved to press against her clavicle, gingerly feeling her shoulder. _I look like I have been confronted by Joffrey._ Then she shook her head, ashamed for having thought it— it wasn’t _that_ bad. _Why did I listen to Littlefinger?_ She lamented, feeling sick at the realization she’d had in the hallway, what she had tried to explain to Sandor, _This is what he wanted._ Sansa didn’t know how she could fix it. Perhaps she had lost Sandor for good. _No, he will come back, he always does. He must._  
  
          She gripped the edge of the chair in front of the vanity until her fingers ached. _Stupid, foolish girl. Why must you spoil everything?_ Sandor had told her, warned her, asked her to make him leave, and she hadn’t listened. _And for what? Because he said he knew Mother?_ She pressed her palms to her wet eyes, dragging them down her face, then patting her cheeks. _Pull yourself together, you are a wolf. Breathe. You can fix this._  
  
          As she always did, she smoothed her hair down, fixing it so it fell just right around her shoulders. Luckily, the stitching on her dress hadn’t torn anywhere, so she kept it, and went to grab a little bent hairpin from one of the vanity drawers, which she slipped in her pocket. Littlefinger wanted to tear them apart, but she could fix everything. She would confront him, she would do what Sandor had asked, what she should have done. _Littlefinger never had any news for you. He paid the boy just so that he would be free from blame._  
  
          She took deep, ragged breaths until the air came and went smoothly, and when she had calmed enough she raised the hood of her cloak again and went outside. It was not towards Littlefinger’s quarters that she went first, however— foolish as she could be, she had learned her fair share of hard lessons, too.  
  
          She went to the armory, where she found Ser Andell. She needed guards, and so Ser Andell sent for Ser Arden, and Brandon and Arnolf, both cavalrymen of the North who did not have the title of ‘ser’ except for as a formality. Only after she had been armed with three able men did she lead the way to the guest quarters, where she rapped smartly at the door. Whether he was in or not, she would let herself in, though as a courtesy she waited to see if there was an answer. There was no answer.  
  
          Sansa was about to push open the door when, exactly on cue, she heard the familiar, throaty voice of Petyr Baelish from the bottom of the stairs, “Ah, Lady Sansa, what a welcome surprise.” His boots clicked up the stairs and he nodded to the guards, then to his door, “Do come in, my lady. Unless you would prefer to speak in the hallway?”  
  
          Sansa shook her head, feeling oddly as though _she_ had been caught doing something wrong. She pushed open the door and signaled for her guards to wait outside. It was a bit of a gamble, but she trusted that Baelish was unarmed. If they sensed something was amiss, they could come for her, but having more ears in the room meant also having more mouths to tell tales, a lesson she learned from Sandor. She smoothed the skirts of her dress and watched as Baelish shut the door, making sure he did not turn the lock. It seemed he had the good sense not to attempt that. _Remember, nothing has happened, everything is fine._  
  
          One of the gifted lion pelts had been placed on the floor of the guest room, and had she been here under different circumstances, Sansa would have been thoroughly amused at the maids’ sense of humor. She lowered her hood, but before she could speak, he said, “Your lord husband is not with you?” She shook her head, and he looked puzzled, “He was with you this morning, was he not?”  
  
          She nodded, “He had other matters to attend to.” He shrugged his shoulders as if to say, _oh well_. Sansa was studying him carefully. She felt, _knew,_ that he must be lying to her, but she couldn’t see the lies. He was so easy to believe. _He has had practice._ “Lord Baelish—“  
  
          “Please, have a seat, my dear,” he interrupted, gesturing to the room. Her options were the bed, and a hard bench.  
  
          “Thank you, but I…prefer to stand.” Again he shrugged, leaning back against the wall and finally allowing her the chance to speak. She took a breath, fingers gripping the bent hairpin in her pocket. “Lord Baelish, you sent a boy to find us.” It was not a question, but he nodded just the same.  
  
          “I did.” He tilted his head to the side.  
  
          “He said you had news.”  
  
          He waved his hand at the air, “Of course, my dear…in time. Forgive me, but you look troubled. Is everything all right?”  
  
          Sansa nodded quickly, she didn’t want to discuss anything with him. But her curiosity took hold, “You told me not to tell Sandor that we spoke.” She tried her best not to make it sound like the sort of accusation a child made.  
  
          “I did.” He said again, “And you told him?”  
  
          Sansa shook her head, “I didn’t. Your boy did.” She wanted to catch him in the lie- she felt rather clever having worked out his intentions, and she wanted to catch him off guard. She took care to keep her voice steady.  
  
          “He did?”  
  
          “Yes…I know you told him to.”  
  
          He chuckled, “Oh, my dear Sansa, is that what this is all about?” he walked from the wall to the bed, opening his empty arms out as if to show her that he held no blame. “I have no control over what some nameless boy says.” He spoke genially.  
  
          Sansa would not be swayed, “You hoped to upset Sandor. So I would want to go with you back to the Eyrie.” _It was no mistake, no slip of the tongue_ she thought, reminding herself of exactly how the boy behaved.  
  
          “Was he upset?” he asked, evenly. She shook her head _no._ “He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Again she shook her head, averting his eyes from his studying stare. _You are a wolf. Stop acting like a child being questioned by her father._ “You see? What purpose would there be in sending some tactless boy to spill my secrets?” He held a hand out to her, which she didn’t take, so he dropped it. He’d caught her in a lie, but she couldn’t very well change her story now. “You told me Sandor would not hurt you, that your husband loved you. I believe you, Sansa. I do not make a habit of breaking apart marriages. I didn’t with Catelyn, and I wouldn’t with you.” He grinned, but it was more of a smirk. “But the boy should not have said anything. I will make sure he understands that.”  
          His words made it difficult for her to focus, to keep down the lump in her throat. He hadn't put a hand on her, hadn't presumed to move any closer than was appropriate as he had last night.  _You are a wolf._ “Why didn’t you tell me yourself?”  
  
          “In truth, I thought it best to keep my distance. I feared I had upset you last night, I did not want you to feel…cornered. You are so…kind, I hoped the boy would make you feel that you could simply refuse to come, rather than having to speak to me. It is always easier to refuse an invitation from someone when you don’t have to look them in the eye. I never thought he would say something so stupid, especially in front of your lord husband. How foolish of me.”  
  
          Sansa knew he was staring her down, knew her eyes were wet again. Everything he said made sense, he had an answer to everything. She hadn’t even heard him say ‘hound’ once. _Remember why you came here._ She stared at his pointed beard, “Lord Baelish, I’m…I’m afraid I must ask you to leave Winterfell. I hope I have not offended—“  
  
          “Oh, my dear, of course. I have already arranged for travel, as you can see.” Sansa realized the room was empty except for the furnishings, “My bags have been taken down already. I only hope _I_ have not offended _you_ in leaving so soon, but Sandor seems to dislike me…I can’t blame him, after my business with the Lannisters…nor would I blame _you_ for mistrusting me. As I said, I have no interest in hurting you or your husband. I only wanted to ensure you were safe, and offer safety with me…I consider you _family_. Should you ever change your mind, I am only a raven away.” This time, when he reached for her hand, she didn’t pull away. He gave it a soft squeeze, and pressed another kiss down on the back of her fingers, lingering for longer than necessary. Sansa _knew_ he must see her red eyes, but he didn’t say a word, just smiled at her. “With your permission, Lady Sansa, I think it best I leave now. And _you_ should go to your husband. I would deeply regret causing you more trouble.”  
  
          She nodded automatically, and before she could respond he turned on his heel to open the door, opening his arm wide for her to go through. Her instinct was to apologize to him, apologize for her behavior. _Don’t. He is playing games with you._ The guards straightened to attention and fell in behind her. “I’m…I shall pray to the gods that your journey home is without any troubles. I apologize for any offense we may have caused.”  
  
          “There is no need to apologize, my dear. Just know that should you, or your family, find yourself in need of safety, my doors will be open to you.”  
  
          Sansa suddenly remembered, “What news did you have?” she asked again, thinking once more that she would catch him off guard.  
  
          He smirked, crossing his arms, “Ah, yes. Clever girl. What a sharp memory you have…unlike mine. I don’t want to alarm you, but…I have word that your sister, Arya, is still alive. Nothing more than whispers, I’m afraid. I hope you do not come to me in need of safety, but perhaps next time we meet, I may have more information. I may have even brought her safely home.” She could not tell if he was lying, but it sent her reeling. _Arya._ She shook her head, _Arya is dead. If she were alive, she would have come back, she would have told me._  
  
          “Thank you, my lord,” she forced herself to say. He nodded, effectively ending their conversation. She made her way down the stairs, gripping the bannister. She would not dignify him with more questions. _Sandor_ she suddenly thought when she reached the bottom of the stairs,  with a tightening in her chest. Then she remembered why she had even come to Littlefinger in the first place. They walked back in the snow, Sansa putting one foot in front of the other automatically, her thoughts elsewhere, and when she reached her quarters she dismissed the guards.  
  
           She felt suddenly so _stupid. What just happened?_ She thought, as she climbed the stairs, replaying the conversation in her head. _How is it that he can twist my words before I’ve said them? That he can twist ideas of thin air! How stupid I must be, to have believed him._ All the things she _intended_ to say, the questions she intended to ask, the accusations, the resolve, all of it came back to closer she got to her door. _Would that I could turn back time_ , she thought in frustration. _Stupid, snide worm he is…I should have listened to Sandor._  
  
           She didn’t want to go back, she couldn’t go back to him again, but even if she had wanted to she was sure he would waste no time in leaving. His seeds had been planted, and now no doubt he would be gone before supper. She only hoped the damage _she_ had done because of him was not too great.  
  
           _I should find Sandor,_ she thought, heart hurting. Then she found herself frustrated, _How could he think I would do anything? How could he think we did anything other than talk?_ Her shoulder ached dully. There was a knock at the door, causing Sansa to jump. _Sandor._ She went to the door and unlatched it, swinging it open.  
  
           “My lady,” it was Maggie, with young Catelyn in her arms- she hadn’t quite mastered stairs. “The little lady wanted her mother. Thought I’d stop by. I can take her, if you like.”  
  
           Sansa tried to hide her disappointment, but shook her head, “No, that’s fine...come here my sweet,” she said, and Maggie handed the girl off to Sansa. She gave a nod of dismissal to Maggie, while Catelyn hugged her arms around Sansa’s neck. Sansa gave her a kiss on the top of her head, smoothing her silky black hair with a gentle hand. She’d gotten so much heavier, lately.  
  
           She went to the window and looked out, hoping perhaps she might see Sandor. She saw nothing, and was distracted by Catelyn’s hand reaching down the front of her dress. She gently pulled her hand out, laughing at the absurdity, “No,” she said, bringing her hand up to kiss it. Catelyn was grinning, blissfully unaware of everything. She tilted her head to the side, smiling softly through her tears “Do you want to go find your papa?”  
  
           Catelyn laughed in response, “Papa,” she repeated, and Sansa went to pull her woolen cap up over her head.  
  
           She thought if she was with Catelyn, it might calm him. _He would never do anything to her._ That much, she knew for certain, otherwise she never would have brought her. She pulled Cat’s weight up in her arms, readjusting her grip as she carefully made her way downstairs. “Let’s go find your father,” she murmured softly, while the baby squirmed in her arms.  
  
           By the time she made it to the First Keep, where she was sure he was, Sansa’s arms were tired. She let Catelyn down, leaning down a bit to hold her hand. “Sandor, are you up there?” she called. She didn’t trust herself to carry Catelyn all the way up. “Sandor, please I’m…I’m not mad. Catelyn wants to see you.” She peered up the steps. There was no answer.  
  
           She looked down at Catelyn, and forced herself to smile. _I could just go up to look,_ she thought, but felt a pang of guilt at the idea of leaving Catelyn alone, even for just a second. Her gut wouldn’t allow that. So, she waited, and waited, while Catelyn crawled around, tumbled, stood, in her own little world.  
  
           Finally, she gathered Cat in her arms once more, moving to the edge of the stairs. “I’m coming up, Sandor,” she called. She gripped the girl close to her chest, very carefully making her way up the narrow stairs. The good girl she was, Catelyn just held tight. When her head cleared the floor of the keep, she braced herself for Sandor’s anger.  
  
           The keep was empty.  
           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry to end on a cliffhanger, I know it's a cruel thing to do! But I wanted to make sure I posted a chapter today. I'm hoping to have the next chapter done for tomorrow, so hopefully those of you keeping up won't have to wait too long.


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Threats and apologies_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully there isn't too much confusion about the timelines, but just in case:  
> The chapter opens at the same place as the last chapter ended. However, Sandor's perspective begins _**before**_ Sansa has come to look for him. Then the timelines meet back up again.

           Sansa let out a cry of frustration, her heart dropping to her belly. Cat squirmed at the noise. Somewhat less carefully than she should have, Sansa made her way back down the stairs. If Sandor wasn’t in the keep, she didn’t know where he might be. Despite the aching in her arms, she walked quickly through the snow, wide-eyed Catelyn bouncing up and down with her steps.  
  
            She made it all the way to the kitchens, quickly stepping inside the warm building, somewhat out of breath. Walla turned to her from the large pot she was stirring, “My lady!” she hit the wooden spoon on the edge of the pot, causing the stew on it to be wicked off, then set it flat on the table. Weathered hands wiped her apron, “What do you need? Your giant is out of wine?”  
  
           Sansa felt a pang of nostalgia, remembering the last time someone had called Sandor her giant. _My giant._ She put a hand to her head, “Um, no- I was…has he been here? Today?” She glanced around the busy kitchens- she hadn’t been here since the rebuild. It was not something ladies made a habit of doing.  
  
           “Not today, my lady. Everything is good?”  
  
           “Oh.” Sansa forced herself to smile, “Yes…Everything is good.”  
  
           She found her way back out the door, leaning against the walls. _Gods, where could he be?_ She was beginning to get truly worried, feeling like she had swallowed a heavy stone which now lay in the pit of her stomach. She realized, as she saw her tracks into the kitchen, that she hadn’t even thought to look for tracks around the First Keep. _There are tracks everywhere, I can’t very well follow all of them._  
  
           “Are you all right, my sweet?” she murmured to Catelyn, whose nose was getting a bit runny. Sansa took a corner of her sleeve and wiped her nose, but the baby felt warm enough that she didn’t worry. “Let’s go find Maggie.”  
  
           “Magga,” repeated Catelyn.  
  
           “Magga,” said Sansa idly, mimicking her daughter. Afterwards she could go find the maester- he would know what to do.  
  
           Maggie was waiting up in the baby’s room, and Sansa felt glad to unburden herself of the child’s weight, though now she felt suddenly lonely. “Have, ah, have you seen Maester Redwin?”  
  
           “Not since we broke fast. I imagine he’ll be up in his holdings, or the library. Is everything all right, my lady?”  
  
           Once again, Sansa forced herself to smile and nod, though she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep it up. Why was the castle suddenly so empty? She didn’t think she could run through the snow again without breaking down to tears, and she was already out of breath. Maggie was looking up at her, bouncing Catelyn on her knee gently. With a sigh Sansa sank down onto her old bed, leaning against one of its posts. “Do you…do you think you could send one of the girls for the maester?”  
  
          With the understanding of a mother, Maggie nodded. “Do you want Cat?” When Sansa nodded, Maggie handed her into Sansa’s open arms once more before disappearing out the door.  
  
          She clutched the child to her chest, rubbing her hand in small, soothing circles on her back. “It’s all right, sweetling…it’s all right, my sweet baby girl,” she murmured, but Catelyn was not the one worrying. In fact, she rather seemed to enjoy getting so much attention, for she hadn’t made a fuss the whole while.  
  
          Within minutes, Maggie was back, asking if Sansa was hungry for anything. She shook her head. They sat in silence, Maggie polite enough not to ask questions, until Maester Redwin arrived some fifty minutes later. “My lady. Maggie,” he said with a nod. “How may I be of assistance?” His kind eyes lingered for a moment on the cloak which Sansa had unnecessarily kept on.  
  
          “I can’t…I’m not sure where Sandor is. I’ve looked in the First Keep, the kitchens…nobody has seen him…He- he was upset, this morning. He ran off and I’m not sure where he’s gone.”  
  
          Maester Redwin, too, had the good sense not to press further. Boys were sent out to notify and ask the guards, while others searched inside the castle. It would be hours before he received word back.

 

          Sandor plowed through the snow to the East Gate, his glare causing the guards to immediately step aside and allow his passage. Despite the cold and fierce winds, with no walls to block them, he would rather walk around the outside of Winterfell, than worry about running into Sansa again. He didn’t think he could face her in his guilt.  
  
          He trudged his way to the South Gate, not entirely sure where he was going, before he veered away from the walls completely, muttering angrily under his breath. He had to let off his anger, and if he couldn’t do it by burying his sword in flesh, he’d have to just exhaust himself. Not until he looked back and saw Baelish’s company riding did he stop, puffs of white air rising from his mouth and nostrils. They were filing out. Not for the first time, a sarcastic voice in his head thought, _The gods_ are _good._  
  
          Those residing in Winter Town had plenty to look at, as the Hound strode across the open, uneven ground ahead of where Littlefinger’s men were formed up. Big as the Hound was, he was staring down a company of fifty men and their horses, daunting to anyone who was in their right mind.  He would not wait for them to reach him.  
  
          _Fifty fucking men, the buggering peacock._ It was absurd. His eyes quickly found Littlefinger, who at least was not so high-and-mighty that he would have himself carried. _Not too good to ride your own buggering horse, eh?_ Littlefinger saw him, and slowed to a stop, forcing the rest of the surrounding company to follow suit.  
  
          Much as Sandor would have liked to yank Littlefinger down off his horse, he was no longer quite so careless with his own life…he may be one of the best fighters in Westeros, but fighting fifty men with only a sword and no proper armor was a death wish. Instead, he pushed through to get to Baelish, weighing his options.  
  
          “Ah, how surprising to see you, Clegane. I thought you would be with your wife?”  
  
          Sandor’s hand wrapped calmly around the loose reins, just under the bit of Petyr’s horse to steady its head. He gave the horse a pat on the neck, “Thought I’d see you off. I’m a proper fucking lord now.”  
  
          “How _considerate_ of you, _my lord_ ,” smirked Littlefinger. He was weighing Sandor with his eyes, but Sandor was used to it. He stared right back. _He knows I won’t risk a fight._ With Littlefinger on his horse, the two were roughly eye level, Littlefinger only slightly higher.  
  
          It was Sandor’s turn to grin, and he was well aware what a ghastly sight it was- his mouth cutting across the gnarled remains of his face, stretching the skin. “Aye. See you, then.” He made to pull away, but gave a hard yank down on the horse’s reins before letting go. With the force he was capable of, he could very well have hurt the horse, but it was of no concern to him…what mattered was that he got the desired reaction- otherwise he would’ve given the horse a swift kick of encouragement. The horse reared back, sending Littlefinger tumbling into the snow, while the guards drew their swords.  
  
          Sandor raised his hands, chuckling in a way that was almost a growl, “My mistake. Stupid fucking horse.” Littlefinger was relatively unhurt except for his pride. The red of his face was satisfaction enough for Sandor as he sat up in the snow, but Sandor wasn’t done. He’d meant to walk away, but Sandor wasn’t known for his self-control, especially not today, and he couldn’t help but want to get one last word in.  
  
           “No matter,” Petyr said, expressionless except for a slight narrowing of the eyes.  
  
          Sandor reached down to grab Littlefinger by the collar, pulling him up before leaning in, giving him a ‘friendly’ thump on the back before gripping his upper arm with a small twist. _Fuck it._ He would take the gamble of having Baelish order his guards to attack. The tip of his nose brushed against Littlefinger’s ear, and he muttered in a low rasp that only he would hear, “You show your sorry fucking face here again, you’re a dead man, Baelish.”  
  
          Petyr gave a stiff nod, and a forced smile for his guards. It wasn’t the first time he’d been pushed around and threatened by big men, “Of course. Many thanks for your…hospitality, my lord.” His voice was even and calculated as ever.  
  
          Sandor released him, giving him another rough thump on the back, “Safe travels.” He forced the guards to pull back to let him pass through again. He turned in time to see Littlefinger struggle to get back on his horse, but oddly felt no more satisfied than he had earlier. The realization bothered him, and despite the cold getting to him, he walked through Winter Town, foolishly hoping for a fight that would not come. He did manage to get his hands on some wine, which he drank as he walked until the skin ran dry.  
  
          It wasn’t until his boots were good and muddied that it occurred to him that Littlefinger’s departure must have been Sansa’s doing. He didn’t think like Sansa did, always in her head, gears turning. He was glad at the realization, but it was well overshadowed by his guilt from his own actions. The desire to go to her was equally as strong as the desire to just leave. _She won’t want to see you. Might be she’d act it, make a buggering show of it like she did with her precious king._  
  
          On top of that, the fact that she’d lied in the first place confused him. Much as he tried, he couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t have just told him the truth, if nothing truly happened. Then, kicking himself, he realized that even if something _had_ happened, it wasn’t _her_ fault. _You foolish fucking arse._ He knew she disliked Littlefinger, and so it stood to reason that if anything had happened, it had been against her will, which only made him feel angrier with himself for his aggression towards her.  
  
          When he decided to make his way back to the walls of Winterfell, his hair and anything he wore that wasn’t leather were soaked with melted snow. The sun lowering only caused his extremities to ache more. He leaned against the outside wall, sinking down to the ground in exhaustion. A voice above him was yelling something incoherent, and only later did it occur to him that it had been one of the men guarding the castle. _I can’t very well leave her. She wants me gone, that’s her decision to make._ He resolved to go back to the gates just as soon as he’d let his legs rest for a few minutes.  
  
  
          Sandor woke to someone shaking him, not sure how long he’d been asleep. The sun had set, the only light coming from glowing lanterns held by the men standing around him.  
  
          “My lord.” It was Maester Redwin, who looked incredibly relieved. He had a knee in the snow. “You need to get up, my lord.”  
  
          “Bugger off, old man.”  
  
          “Your lady wife has been searching for you. She is waiting up with your daughter.”  
  
          Sandor eyed him- he couldn’t tell if the man knew what had happened between them. He must’ve known _something_ , as indicated in his gentle coaxing. _Catelyn. Shit._ He covered his face with his hand for a moment, _Well, you can sit like a buggering child or act a goddamn man._ The maester held a hand out, which Sandor swatted away, though not roughly. When he heaved himself up, every muscle and joint felt stiff. His clothes crunched, his movement breaking apart the thin ice that had woven itself into the fabric. He nearly stumbled, but his pride forced him to remain upright.  
  
          “I can have a horse sent, if you do not feel up to walking.” One look at the maester told him that he hadn’t expected Sandor to get up in the first place.  
  
          “Bugger off.”  
  
          Four guards with lanterns stood around them as they made their way back to the castle. Despite his shortened strides, Maester Redwin still had to walk briskly to keep pace with Sandor. They were let in without hesitation from the guards, and by the time they made it back to the castle the sky was black. The four guards left them at the bottom of the stairs, and only then did Sandor allow himself to lean on the wall a bit. When Maester Redwin opened the door to his bedroom, he found it deserted.  
  
          “Where’s Sansa?”  
  
          “Up with young Catelyn. She will be down shortly. Sit, my lord.” The sudden heat from the castle made Sandor feel dizzy, but he was wet and shivering so rather than soak the bed, he sat in a heap on the floor. Before long, pages were sent up to unburden Sandor of his ruined clothes.  
  
          The heat of the room made his skin throb. When the page boys finally managed to struggle Sandor into fresh, warm clothes, he shifted himself to lean against the wall. Maester Redwin urged him to get into bed, but Sandor was aching horribly and emotionally worn down, and the last thing he wanted to do was climb alone into the bed he and his wife shared.

 

  
          Sansa was waiting anxiously, imploring the gods for their help, when Maester Redwin knocked on the door. Catelyn, who had been sleeping, stirred softly in her cradle and Maggie went to open the door. Sansa stood.  
  
           “Your husband has been found- one of the guards on the wall spotted him. I do not know how long he was out in the snow, but he had fallen asleep. He is in a bad way, but it could have been much worse…he is lucky not to have frost bite. Any longer and he may not have had all his fingers and toes.”  
  
          Unbidden tears of relief came to Sansa’s eyes, and she wanted nothing more than to run to Sandor. Instead, she nodded, and joined step with Maester Redwin. “Is…was he alone? Is he upset?”  
  
          The maester shook his head, “He is a bit feverish, and he seems drained. It is hard to say. He was asking about you, though. As far as we could tell, he was alone.”  
  
          As upset as Sansa was with him, she pushed those feelings which could wait aside. They could talk later. She was just worried for him, and sorry. She’d kept her cloak on all day to hide the evidence of their quarrel, and when they reached the bedroom door she gripped the hem anxiously.  
  
          “He should be all right for tonight. If there is any cause for concern, send for me. Otherwise, I will be up in the morning to tend to him.” She nodded, and Maester Redwin continued down the stairs without her.  
  
          When she peered inside, she almost didn’t see him. He was slumped down, leaning sideways against the wall, asleep. He looked small, almost. Defeated. When he grabbed her, she had been scared, and when she calmed she found herself upset with him, wanting to slap him across the face. But now… _If I’ve caused this, he’s been punished enough._  
  
          She knelt beside him, reaching out a tentative hand and nudging him gingerly. “Sandor,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. She cleared her throat, “Sandor?” she managed, a bit louder, giving him another nudge. He grunted, and woke.  
  
          He lifted his head as though it was twice as heavy as it should have been, and when their tired eyes met Sansa saw his flash in recognition, then sudden realization and for a moment his eyes looked like those of a child. In the same moment he turned his head away and covered his face with his hand, jaw clenched.  
  
          His breath was a bit ragged, and though he didn’t seem to be crying, Sansa thought he looked like he might. It made _her_ want to cry. It made her want to shrink him down so she could hold him in her arms. She almost preferred his anger.  
  
          She stood and sat beside him on the bed, putting a hand on his shoulder and giving it a soft squeeze, “I’m _so_ sorry. I should have listened to you. I’ve…I’ve sent Littlefinger away, he’s gone now. I never meant…I _never_ meant to hurt you and, just, I’m sorry, and none of it matters, I’m…I’m not angry with you. I’m just…I’m just tired, and sorry, and glad you’re all right. Nothing else matters right now, all right?” When he didn’t move, she gave him another soft squeeze, “Please come back to me.”  
  
          He remained where he was for a while, and Sansa didn’t push him. She knew too well how he could brood, so she just sat patiently with her hand on his shoulder. Then, all at once, he turned and let out a heaving sigh, pulling his arms around her waist and laying his head upon her lap. Her first instinct, which she regretted, was to pull back. Instead, she lay a gentle hand on his head, smoothing his tangled mess of wet hair.  
  
          None of this had gone as she thought it might. When she had been sitting and waiting with Catelyn, she swore up and down to herself that if he had the _audacity_ to show his face, that she would confront him. She would make him apologize to beyond The Wall and back again. Then, as the night grew colder, she decided that if he returned, she would throw herself down on her knees and beg his forgiveness for her foolishness. She never thought he would be the one on his knees.  
  
          His face was hot against her legs and her dress was damp around her lap and middle from his hair. Delicate fingers pulled his hair back to tuck it behind his ear, which was flushed pink. Lazily, she traced down his neck and along the top of his back. Sansa’s eyelids began to get heavier as the shadows cast by the flickering firelight danced longer.  
  
           “Will you come to bed?” she asked softly.  
  
           “Will you stay?”  
  
           “Of course.”  
  
          Arms tightened softly around her for a moment, and he nodded. When he found it in himself to move again, he pushed himself up, swaying slightly before he caught his balance. Sansa hurried to pull the furs and blankets back, and he all but collapsed onto the bed, pressing his face into the pillows. Sansa unclasped her cloak, dressing down to her nightshift and pulling her hair over to the side where he had grabbed her earlier. When she crawled into bed and cuddled up with him, she was surprised to find that he didn’t stink of wine despite everything that had happened. Warm hands found his still cold fingers, holding them gently.  
  
          “Sorry, little bird. I’m sorry,” he mumbled.  
  
          “I know.”  
  
          Before long, his breathing deepened, and he began to snore softly. Although Sansa’s tired eyes closed, her mind would not allow her to sleep. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she had been away from King’s Landing and Westeros for too long. She had forgotten about the mind games they played, she had gotten used to Sandor's protection, his ability to sniff out the lies for her. Her mind kept replaying the conversations she had with Littlefinger, pulling apart each piece, trying to catch up to him, trying to pass him. _He is no different than he was at King’s Landing. You are. You are a wolf. Wolves do not get bested by mockingbirds._ Sleep found her only well after Sandor’s fingers had warmed and the fire had flickered to embers.


	47. Chapter 47

          Sansa’s dreams pulled her back to King’s Landing, where more voices from her past echoed in her head… She was dressed in her wedding gown, the one Cersei made for her marriage to Tyrion, weighed down by the layers of fabric. “ _Come here, little dove,”_ said the queen, holding up a cup of wine and wearing a burgundy gown to match it. But Sansa did not want the queen’s poisoned wine, so she backed up into the Hound, who grabbed her shoulders with mailed hands. “ _The city’s on fire,”_ he rasped in her ear. As he spoke it, it became true, for the skies swirling above the open ceiling of the tower were green and black, and over the edge down below the ground was ablaze… “ _Leave her face,”_ said Joffrey, and the Hound began to drag her down the winding steps along the outside of the tower, closer to the burning ground. When she had the courage to look up, Joffrey and Cersei seemed miles away. _My dress- the fire will ruin my dress_ she thought, and in the dream suddenly that was the most important, horrifying thing she could ever think to happen in this situation. When she tried to pull away, he held her firmly in place. _“Don’t worry, Jonquil, I have a way out,”_ the Hound rasped, but the air kept getting hotter and hotter, the flames climbing higher…  It was with a sudden gasp that she awoke, safe in her bed.  
  
          The feeling of heat, however, did not leave her, and it was only after she had a minute to reorient herself that she realized Sandor was the reason behind it. He had her pulled in, an arm curled around her middle, head buried against her neck and hair. She felt like she was sleeping with a warm hearthstone. While Sansa was sweating her weight under him, he was snoring softly and blissfully unaware.  
  
          She untangled herself first and pulled the blankets back, breathing a sigh of relief as the relatively cool air washed over her, while he rolled onto his back.  
  
 _Truly, Sansa? Jonquil?  
  
_          Dim light filtered through the cracks in the window shutters, indicating the dawn, the fire had long burned down. She leaned over him with a hand on his chest, tapping him gently with her other.  
  
          “Sandor?” He grunted. “Sandor, wake up.”  
  
          “Hm?”  
  
          “You’re burning up.”  
  
          “All right.” he mumbled, pulling the blankets back over himself and turning on his side.  
  
          “Wake _up_.”  
  
          “I’m fine.”  
  
          Sansa crawled off the edge of the bed, “Sandor, I’m going to get maester.”  
  
          “Stay.”  
  
          “I’ll be right back.” She rummaged through her things, pulling the simplest dress she owned on. It was a soft cotton dress that looked more like a long tunic, over which she wore one of her mother’s old coats, blue-green with fleece cuffs. With that, she was out the door.  
  
          Sandor grumbled, burying his face into her pillow and inhaling. His head throbbed, and he had not slept nearly long enough. _Bugger._ He turned to look back over his shoulder at the burnt-out hearth, shivering and pulling the blankets tighter around him. _Stupid bird. Buggering waking me up._ Sleep had been a welcome escape from the events of the past couple days. It was an escape from the self-hatred, and the even worse feeling of his wife trying to be so comforting to him for his own wrongdoings. When she woke him, he felt like the weight of the castle had collapsed on top of him.  
  
          The bedroom door reopened to the sound of two sets of footsteps. The soft, even patter of his wife, and the shuffling maester with his rattling chains.   
  
          “Sandor?”  
  
          “Hmph.”  
  
          “Maester Redwin is here.”  
  
          “Good morning, my lord.”  
  
           The mattress shifted with Sansa’s weight, and her hand went to his upper arm. “Will you sit up?”  
  
          “I’m fine.”  
  
          She sighed, “Please?”  
  
          That wasn’t what he wanted- he would never wait for her courtesies, but now he felt he had to oblige. He was damned either way. Tired and aching, he forced himself to sit up, hunching forward rather than lying back against the pillows- he was not about to sit like an invalid. He smoothed his tunic half-heartedly.   
  
           “I’m fine,” he repeated, as Maester Redwin approached and carefully moved to touch the back of his hand against Sandor’s forehead, then chin, then under the neck with an expression of intent focus that seemed to be a staple of the profession. Almost on cue, one of the apprentices knocked and entered with a tray and steaming kettle. “How are you feeling, my lord?”  
  
          “I’m bloody _fine_ ,” he growled. The maester had gone to his hands, inspecting his fingers, pinching his fingertips gently.  _Isn’t it your fucking job to tell_ me _how I’m fucking feeling?_ “It’s too fucking early.”  
  
          With a polite nod, Maester Redwin stood and walked to the table, pulling some various phials and pouches out from within the folds of his robe. The top came off the kettle, and he began his work, brewing whatever ridiculous potion he had for Sandor’s nonexistent sickness. “Well, my lord, fine as you may feel, you have a fever.”  
  
          Sandor snorted, and Sansa took his hand. “I’m sorry.”  
  
          He couldn’t bring himself to answer. She was so _perfect_ , so sickeningly perfect. Only she would apologize for a fever she didn’t cause, or for waking him so that she could have the maester, whom she fetched herself, treat him. He made himself lift his head to look at her, and immediately wished he hadn’t.   
  
          From just under her clavicle, peeking out from the collar of her dress, was a splotch of red on her otherwise flawless skin. It was hardly noticeable, but he saw it, and that was all that mattered. And she was looking at him like there was nothing to see, a sweet, concerned look on her pretty face. _Stupid buggering bird,_ he thought, turning away again and staring down at his hands.   
  
          Maester Redwin returned to the bedside with a cup of tea, “Drink this, my lord, if you would. This should help stymie whatever is causing your fever, if it is not too serious. In the meantime, you need to _rest_. Fighting a fever is not the same as fighting a swordsman, my lord. What works well for one does the opposite for the other.”  
  
          With a gentle, urging squeeze from Sansa’s hand, Sandor took the tea. He stared down at it, brownish, steaming, with dark flecks floating in it. The maester nodded to Sansa, “Make sure he rests, and drinks plenty, my lady.”  
  
          “And…the fever? He’s… should I get him ice?”  
  
          “As long as he feels all right, it is best to let the fever run its course. If he begins to feel uncomfortable, by all means. As always, I will be close should you need me. I will have one of the boys wait out in the hallway. I would recommend you stay away from young Catelyn, at least until the fever passes, just in case.” Sansa nodded, and the maester departed.   
  
          She nudged him softly, “Drink your tea.”  
  
          With a roll of his eyes, he foolishly threw back the tea like he would ale, regretting the decision when he felt the back of his throat blister from the heat. The pain was better than nothing. His thumb brushed idly over her hand, and she took the cup from him, setting it down beside the bed.   
  
          “Will you lie down?” Sansa asked softly. He shook his head _._ She’d only been with him last night and this morning, and already she wanted her old Sandor back. _What have I done?_ She thought, regretting ever letting Petyr Baelish through the gates of Winterfell, not for the first time. It was bad enough that he was ill, and now brooding horribly on top of that. _And all over nothing._  
  
          Not knowing what to do, she pulled her arms around him, hugging him around his neck. To her relief, he pulled his thick arms around her, hand on the back of her head smoothing her hair down. She turned to kiss his cheek, it no longer mattered to her whether it was his burned side or not, it hadn’t mattered in ages.   
  
          When she pulled back, his hand went to her cheek, eyes going from hers, then flicking down. For a moment, she thought he was looking at her breasts, until his fingers pinched back the collar of her coat. Feeling unduly guilty for what was underneath, she pulled away, putting a hand over his to stop him.  
  
          “It’s nothing.”  
  
          “Show me,” he rasped, gritting his teeth.  
  
          “Truly, it’s _nothing._ ” He reached up and made to pull back her coat again, and when she pushed at his hand he pulled back anyway. Exasperated, she swatted his hand away, “Sandor _stop_ it. _Please._ ” Her voice caught in her throat. “It’s _nothing._ It doesn’t matter. I told you it doesn’t.”   
  
          It had been a long time she’d been in King’s Landing, but some things still stuck with her. She didn’t want to be ugly, she didn’t want to _upset_ him for it. She _knew_ better, but part of her wanted to cover it up as she always had, since showing such things only ever used to bring her more bruises. Petyr’s words, his ‘insight’ on the Hound hadn’t helped.  
  
          Only when she nearly slapped his hand away did he cease pushing. His hand turned to gently clutch the side of her neck. “It matters.” Then, he sighed and pulled away, rolling back onto the bed. “Damn me. I didn’t mean it.”  
  
          She furrowed her brow, “I _know_. Please can we stop talking about it? It’s over and now you’ve gone and made yourself ill. That can be your punishment, if that’s what will make you feel better. All right?”  
  
          For the first time in what felt like ages, his face cracked, just for a moment, into the shadow of a smile. Then he rolled away from her, “Gods damn you, girl.” He wasn’t upset, but he just didn’t _want_ to smile, it was _serious._   
  
          Sansa laughed, and as she did she seemed to laugh an enormous weight off of her shoulders. “All right.” For her laugh, he no longer minded the lapse in his severity. She picked up his cup and walking to the table, “Would you like wine or water? Or more tea?”  
  
          “…Water. Anything but the fucking tea.” He looked over at her. _Gods._  
  
          After filling his cup, she returned to him, setting the cup on the stand by the bed. Soft hand went to brush over his cheek and forehead, “How are you feeling? All right?” _So damned concerned._  
  
          “Aye. You’ve seen me shot full of arrows, girl. It’ll take more than a bloody fever to take me down, try as your fucking gods might.” Sandor tilted his chin up to look at her, almost thoughtfully. “Y’don’t have to stay. Nothing to do here.”  
  
          Sandor had been sick plenty of times in his life, but he had almost always been surrounded by boys and men. There wasn’t anyone to take care of him, to worry or dote on him, no mothers or wives. The fact never made him upset, it was just how things were. But Sansa seemed to constantly change things, twist his memories and experiences so that part of him wondered how he ever managed before without her. It was both comforting, and frightening, the idea of being almost dependent on her. He was used to taking care of himself, but he didn’t truly want her to leave him.   
  
          Sansa sat beside him at the edge of the bed, “I would rather stay with you. If anyone misses me, I shall tell them I’ve fallen sick with you.”   
  
          She grinned, and he pulled her over him, “Best not, little bird, you’re a shit liar,” he rasped, reaching up to bring her face down to his. It was a simple kiss, but in such a simple act both were immediately thrust in sync with one another, both realizing now something that had been lacking, which was now instantly rekindled. He could hear his own blood pulsing in his head.   
  
          His hands tugged at the clasp of her coat, and Sansa made no move to fight it, allowing him to pull it apart. She inhaled sharply as he tugged it down her shoulders, a bit too hard, but thankfully he did not take it as her being in pain. She deftly began to roll up the hem of his tunic. When she pushed it up to his chest, he took over, leaning up a moment to pull it off himself.   
  
          It was all happening very fast and had started so suddenly, but Sansa _ached_ for him, she had missed him. Intimacy after the baby had fallen to the wayside a bit, which hadn’t been a big deal but after the last few days of strife Sansa just wanted to be close to him again. She pressed her lips to his, running a flat palm up his muscled torso and along his chest, his hair gently tickling her fingers. _My giant._  
  
          His hand went to gently knead her breast through her dress, and she moved atop him, a leg on either side, hips hovering above him. He grabbed a handful of her dress, clenching the fabric in his fist around her waist while his other hand slid up the back of her thigh. When he made to pull the dress over her head, her heart pounded. _Don’t let him see, don’t spoil it._ She kissed him before he could look at her, letting her hair drape over them. Her slip she pulled away herself, keeping her face only an inch from his the whole time. She couldn’t let him see.  
  
          The dresses lay forgotten on the floor, his rough hands finally caressing her without interference from her garments. His thumb and forefinger came together at the tip of her breast, making her tummy swirl. She let out a soft, shaky sigh against him, while the hand on her thigh now moved between her legs to cup her mound.   
  
          Fingers stroked along her outer folds, eliciting a satisfying, desperate little whimper from Sansa. His digits moved to gently part puffy flesh, then, and his thumb found the sensitive pearl between them, causing her to press her hips into his hand. He groaned against her lips. Thick arm moved to hook around her small waist, and in one motion he rolled himself over her, gently easing her down onto the bed. His palm over her mound pressed her hips softly into the mattress.  
  
          When he tried to move his head back to look upon her, her hands grabbed him, a palm on each cheek, and she pulled his face down to hers. He grunted, and the fluttering pressure below her tummy made her grind her hips against his palm, desperate for more friction. One of her hands slid along the back of his neck to keep him close, the other went to his chest, stroking down and turning her palm upward to feel his stiff manhood.  
  
           He exhaled sharply, pressing his clothed groin into her hand. Before long, the trousers were unlaced and thrown away. His hand slid under her to the small of her back, pulling her up towards him. He leaned down to her level, resting forward on his forearm, which he placed flat on the mattress beside her head.  
  
          When he finally entered her, her legs went to wrap around him, toes curling. She leaned her head up against his chest, gasping softly and clutching his shoulders— she felt as though it had been ages. It was, in a way, an altogether new experience. Suddenly the gnawing emptiness inside her that she hadn’t even realized had been there, was filled. Her hips rocked to meet with his, and almost instantly they fell into an urgent rhythm. His breath was hot against her neck, huffing loudly against her ear.  
  
          Neither of them lasted very long, and as his hips bucked against hers for the final time, her legs squeezed tighter around him as if to draw him in. Sansa made a low, throaty noise, her body shivering against his in satisfaction as she felt his heat pool inside her. It was only when she had the moment to catch her breath that she realized how heavily _he_ was breathing.  She languidly unwrapped her legs from him, resting at his sides.  
  
         When her legs dropped, Sandor eased out of her, slumping over on his side beside her and still panting raggedly- he wasn’t even paying attention to Sansa. He wanted her, and was glad to have had her, but the fever had not made it easy. He felt dizzy and unbearably hot, and _exhausted._ He hadn’t even lasted long- they’d gone longer and harder plenty of times before. _Bugger me.  
  
_           He didn’t want Sansa to see, so he’d tried to force his breath to be even, which only made him dizzier. He turned onto his back, drawing in the air which felt thick and warm in his lungs, doing nothing to help ease his discomfort. She had taken note, too, and not until her fingertips brushed across his forehead did he realize he must’ve been sweating like a damned sow.  
  
          “Sandor? Are you all right?”  
  
          “Aye. Just warm.” He’d be damned if he would let himself be bested by a bloody fever in front of her. In front of anyone. It was only his body, it was not a real, physical wound that would bleed out. Whether he breathed hard or soft, whether he stayed still or moved, whether he acted ill or pretended he wasn’t, it would not change the fever. He wouldn’t die from pretending it wasn’t there any more than he would cure himself by showing his sickness and weakness.   
  
          She pulled away from him, sliding naked off the edge of the bed, “I’m going to get you some ice.”  
  
          He forced himself to turn to her, lying on his side while reaching his heavy arm out to grab her, “Stay— shit.”  
  
          Almost as soon as he had wrapped his fingers around her wrist he released her like her skin was a hot stove, putting the hand on the back of his head in frustration.  Sansa’s heart sank for a moment, and she quickly pulled her arm across her chest to cover the opposite shoulder, “Sandor, really, it’s _nothing_. It…it looks worse than it is. It doesn’t really even hurt.” It wasn’t a total lie.  
  
          He rolled down onto his back again, drawing his forearm across his brow and leaving it there. He felt as though he might vomit, though whether it was from the guilt and self-hate or the fever, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps both. “Just go,” he managed, then quickly added, “For the ice,” so he wouldn’t be misunderstood. Still, it wasn’t what he wanted to say, what he’d meant to say, what he _should_ have said.  
  
          She pulled her slip on without protest and went to clean between her legs before she pulled on her dress once more, hastily tying her coat. Before going she went to him, giving his wrist a quick squeeze, “I’ll be right back. I’ll let the boy know, so if you need anything, you just call for him. All right?” He nodded, and she left.  
  
          When the door closed, he finally released the tension in his chest, allowing himself to gasp for air. He rolled onto his stomach, somewhat regretting bedding Sansa, as it seemed to have worsened his symptoms. He pulled himself off of the bed and went to the windows, pushing them open and sticking his head out into the cold Winter air, his lungs much happier for it. _Damn me._ He leaned heavily on the sill, not trusting his legs to hold out for the moment, gulping in the air. When he felt confident that he would not empty the contents of his stomach all over the floor if he moved, he returned to the bed, leaving the windows wide open.   
  
          When she returned, she had a bowlful of shaved ice and snow, which she placed on the table. She carefully wrapped some of the ice in a cloth and brought it to him, pressing it to his hot forehead, the side of his neck, along his chest. It was welcome relief for him. He lolled and she doted, and when he could stand her unearned sweetness no longer he finally rasped, “I’m sorry, little bird.” He clenched and unclenched his jaw a few times, as if he had to really work himself to say it, like a child learning to swing a heavy sword for the first time.  
  
          “I… I know. Please. It’s fine. I don’t…I don’t want to hear about it anymore. It’s all forgiven.” She was no longer a child, she _could_ stand up for herself. She had people to help her, she could survive without Sandor, and she would not have been so forgiving if not for the fact that he had bruised her but twice in her entire life, the first time being when they were fleeing King’s Landing. She told herself that if it ever became a regular occurrence, she would not put up with it…she had endured enough pain and abuse for a lifetime under Joffrey’s malicious thumb. Sandor had been angry with her, and scared, and hurt- so much so that only for a minute he forgot himself, forgot his strength. As soon as he’d realized it, he had let her go. She _couldn’t_ hold that against him, she could never.  
  
          Watching someone she loved angry with her, hurt by her, and threatening her had shaken her at the time. But that was it, really. It scared her, more than it had actually hurt her… King’s Landing had beaten her down and forced her to toughen, so she had numbed. Long ago as it was, she was sure those feelings would never leave. She had not softened with time. She would still get afraid, sometimes she would cry openly, and she now had plenty of things that made her happy and brought her joy, but pain was something that no longer had quite the same sting after all her exposure to it. It was with a somewhat sad feeling that she concluded that if Sandor had gone so far as to strangle her, she probably would not have truly felt it, any more than she had felt him grabbing her shoulder.   
  
          Whatever it was she had said, or whatever it was that he saw in her as she spoke, he seemed to finally accept her response this time.  
  
          Sandor did not want to fight her or force her into anything. If his wife would continue to stubbornly insist that it was _fine_ , then he would let it be. He would not press her nor shower her with more apologies…his apologies to her amounted to nearly all the apologies he’d made in his lifetime. He would, however, resolve to fix his wrong. Words were wind, despite Sansa’s inexplicable attachment to them, and he knew it would be his actions that would allow him to accept her forgiveness, not the apologies he said for her sake.   
  
          She _could_ have gone with Littlefinger. It would be an act that seemed to hold only gain for her. Wealth, lands, a man who was not disfigured, who could dote on her and return all of her courtesies twofold. Littlefinger was small, and physically weak, but he surrounded himself with strong men who knew how to wield a sword, so she would not be left wanting protection. She would not be left wanting _anything._ She _could have_ left him, or made him leave, but she hadn’t. It had been her choice, wholly and solely. _I can be good to her. I can be better._  
  
          When Sansa urged him to drink more of the awful tea, he did so without a fight. When food was brought to the room, he obeyed her command to stay in bed, while she fixed him a plate. He allowed her to care for him and swallowed his guilt about it. He even reluctantly allowed himself to _enjoy_ it. The whole thing was so absurd, though, that he couldn’t help but feel somewhat out of place. She was playing a game of house that he’d never really learned nor expected to participate in, and so he watched her, and tried to figure out how to play along.   
  
          In those moments of contemplation it dawned on him how impossible everything was. She had forced her way into his life and now, somehow, she had remained. She was _his_ , as young Catelyn was his, as the castle was his and the nauseating titles and duties that came with it. It was in that realization that he felt a strong, unfamiliar surge of _gratitude_. Gratitude for whatever unfathomable force and series of circumstances had shuffled them from one moment to the next until they wound up at this point.   
  
          The feeling was new, and as he let it sink in he stared at her, now curled up in bed with him, still holding a cold cloth against his neck. She was staring at his chest, eyes tracing the criss-crossed path of scars, the ones not covered by hair. He didn’t attempt to guess what was going through her busy mind, he just allowed himself to enjoy the moment, to enjoy her. _It’s the buggering fever making you soft like a damned pudding. The bloody fucking fever._


	48. Chapter 48

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A warm bath_

          Through the duration of his illness, Sansa had been as thoughtful and patient with Sandor as ever. She tended to business around the castle in short bursts of time, but otherwise she remained in the bedroom with Sandor. He barely ate, he rarely spoke, and he only drank at Sansa’s insistence.  
  
         Sandor lay in bed taking short, deep breaths and otherwise lying so still that he might have been a statue. _Or a corpse_ , thought Sansa, in a small moment of terror in which she had quickly tapped an annoyed Sandor awake, just to be certain. The pyrexia got worse before it got better, and on the second night Sansa found it harder to believe the maester’s calm assessments.   
  
          _It’ll take more than a bloody fever to take me down_ , Sandor had told her, but illnesses worked from the inside out. Their attacks could not be blocked by shields, and they didn’t care how well a body could wield a sword.   
  
          On the morning of the second day, Maester Redwin checked Sansa for fever. She was, thankfully, well, but he insisted she rest.  
  
          “My lady, let me take care of your lord husband. You must take care of yourself- you are stretching yourself too thin, and if you are not careful you will find yourself in bed with him.” He had her open her mouth, and as he peered at her throat he added, “If you continue this way, I will not hesitate to ask the guards to ensure the two of you stay in separate rooms for your safety.” It was not a threat, really, but Sansa still gave him an incredulous look at the suggestion. He left them with a kettle of tea, and a salve for Sansa’s bruising. Later, Sansa would blame that tea for the uninterrupted sleep she had that night.  
  
          When the third day reduced Sandor to low mumbling verging on the edge of delirium, Sansa had convinced herself that he would not make it through the night. It wasn’t until late evening when he started hacking violently that she started to feel a little better- anything Sandor did _violently_ was a good sign, to her. It was his stillness that made her uneasy.   
  
          On the fourth morning, his fever had broken, and by the afternoon he was his usual grumpy self. He insisted on leaving the room, and the rest of the day was spent trudging through the snow, hacking his sword until the training dummies were no more than shattered piles of sticks and straw, and eating voraciously. As much as Sansa wanted to spend her time with him, when she caught sight of herself in the mirror, she insisted on staying inside to fix herself up.   
  
          Both returned to bed that night looking like their old selves, looking as they should.

 

 

           Steam curled up in soft wisps from the stone tub as hot water met with cool air. Little bubbles stuck to the wet bar of peppermint soap that at the tub’s edge, cousins of the thicker bubbles that sat on top of the water. Soft hands were resting up on either side of the tub out of the water, no doubt for fear of getting wrinkled fingers.  
  
            Sansa’s ears were accompanied by the soft whirring white noise that came with submerging one’s head underwater, or holding a shell to one’s ear. It was a soothing sort of non-silence, a sense of being briefly removed from the real world, at least until she had to resurface for air.   
  
           Nose, face, then auburn hair emerged from beneath the clusters of suds, followed by the rest of Sansa’s upper half. When she realized Sandor was standing with his arms folded watching her, she sank down a bit, folding her own arms over her exposed parts and crossing her legs over each other underwater with the modesty of a maiden.  
  
           “Nothing I’ve not seen before,” he rasped, lips curling upward.  
  
           “You _startled_ me,” she accused, lower lip protruding a bit.  
  
           He shrugged. “You mean for me to go elsewhere, when my _lady wife_ is in here, naked as her nameday?”   
  
           She blushed. “I think it fair of me to expect my lord husband won’t sneak up on me while I _bathe_ ,” she scolded lightly, extending her dripping arm out over the edge of the tub to beckon him, though she kept one arm drawn across her breasts. It was a habit, something she felt the need to do even in the privacy of her own room. Once in bed, though, she was not quite so shy.  
  
           “I don’t,” he retorted, pulling his gloves off and kneeling on the wet stone beside her to take her arm, allowing the dripping water a new destination, up his sleeve. The air was much warmer directly by the water than the unusual cold that filled the rest of the room. His other hand reached in the water to grab hers, gentle but firm, which she half-heartedly resisted, turning her face away from his hungry eyes briefly.  
  
           The intensity with which he would look upon her seemed to force her to take on the opposite position, shying away, though the place below her stomach fluttered with butterflies. When she tried again to pull her hands away, he released her…for all his intensity and strength, he never forced anything upon her. “Well, then I…don’t think it fair that you and I should be unequally exposed.” Her lips barely parted when she spoke, though the words themselves were bland, the intentions behind them were less than ladylike, which made them difficult for her to get out. Big blues blinked up at him expectantly.  
  
           His stony face cracked into a laugh at the rare moment of verbally expressed prurience, however obliquely she did it. He would not let her get off so easily, though- the she-wolf would have to earn her kill. “Aye, you’ve a point in that, but the air’s cold, and these clothes are warm.” Perhaps wishful thinking expected her to return with a tease along the lines of ‘ _then I shall warm you’_ – instead he was met with a heavy-handed splash of water. Warm, at first, the water quickly cooled in the air. When he looked at her in scowling disbelief, she was grinning back in a mixture of guilty mischievousness which only she could pull off earnestly.   
  
           “Perhaps now they will not be so warm my— What— Oh! No, no!” Her sly, victorious timbre quickly turned into girlish squeals, when without wasting a moment he’d pulled his tunic over his head and grabbed her, pulling her up by her arm and hoisting her out of the bath and over his broad shoulder as water poured over him to flood the floor. “No, stop it, it’s freezing!” she squealed, hands desperately grasping at his back for fear she might slip from his hold like soap in a wet hand.  
  
           “Not so bloody funny now, is it, girl?” he rasped, keeping a firm hold around her with one arm, fingers digging into her glossy skin. He shifted his weight from one side to the other as he kicked off his boots. Next off were his wet trousers.  
  
            “Now we’re bloody well equal,” he growled, shifting her weight on his shoulder with a tug to rebalance her. The muscles in his chest and torso spasmed against the cold as water ran down his skin, tickling it with icy fingers.  
  
           She was still protesting, little fingers clawing at the skin of his back. Weight swayed to one side as he pulled himself over the edge of the tub, leaning so that his hand hovered over the edge, ready to grab hold should he lose his balance. He pulled his other leg over and sank down into the hot water, pulling her down from his shoulder in the same motion. Once down, she pressed her forehead to his chest, laughing. He put a hand on her shaking back until she’d finished, her legs slipping against his sides as she leaned back. The spicy smell of peppermint prickled his nostrils as it rose with the steam. It made breathing easier, but the quick change from cold to hot made his nose run.  
  
           “You’re _horrible,_ ” she chided, swatting his wet bicep with a _thwack_. “You could have dropped me.”  
  
           “Never.” He cupped the water in his hand and brought it to his face, rubbing up and down before wicking the excess moisture away.  
  
           Sansa had picked up the soap, and she went to take his wrist, guiding his hand to flip over. She put her hand over his, pressing the soap into the dip of his palm like a warm river stone. His fingers closed around both the soap and her hand to pull her in closer. Her long wet hair feathered out around her where it hit the waterline and tickling his chest. With his free hand, he pushed it behind her shoulders, like opening a curtain.  
  
           He pulled her hand and the soap to his chest, pressing firmly so that when he moved his hand away the soap would not slip. Her lips pressed together in an attempt to hide her smile as she took his silent suggestion, guiding the soap in fluid circles along his chest, making it sudsy and slippery where it scrubbed his shaggy body hair. He didn’t know if she did it on purpose, or if it was her genuine delicate way of going about things, but the slow and steady way she dragged the soap on his skin, applying soft pressure… _Gods_. It was what Sansa would call a sweet moment, and he didn’t want to end it, but he couldn’t help the blood rushing to his loins.  
  
           It wasn’t often they had this sort of intimate, solitary time together, except at night when they were generally both tired. He ran a flat palm up her other arm and moved to tuck the heavy copper tendrils of hair behind her ear. His fingertip ran along her ear’s ridge down to the lobe, and he gave it a playful pinch between his fingers. Sandor often admired her beauty, he couldn’t not, but it was most often done with a gentle laziness that came with lying in a warm bed after a long day.   
  
           He was in awe of her every inch, a feeling that Sansa would probably call ‘love’ but that Sandor felt did not accurately describe the sensation, at least not in the way he knew it. He didn’t _love_ Sansa in the way that Sansa _loved_ lemoncakes, or he _loved_ a good fight. It was more than that. He loved her like cracked dirt loved rain, or shivering skin loved warm furs. He wanted to consume her, her every smell, touch, and taste, all at once, constantly.  
  
           His thumb brushed along the side of her jaw, tracing down along her throat while his palm lay flat against her neck. The bruises he had inflicted were faded somewhat, but they were still visible evidence of his crime. She didn’t flinch when he touched them, which was nice. Sansa was working the soap along his shoulders and upper back, while he moved lower to grip her ribcage, just under the swell of her breasts which bobbed only barely below the waterline in her position. He felt down each bump and dip of her ribs, pressing firmly to keep from tickling her skin.   
  
           Water splashed over his shoulders as Sansa rinsed away the white bubbles from his skin and hair. He pulled her in closer by her hips, now wider in his hands than they had been before the baby, feeling her tummy jump a little when the tip of his shaft bumped against it. Smiling, her hand moved to mirror what his had done, gliding up his shoulder and across his chest to the base of his neck, until her thumb pressed to his throat. Instinctively he tensed to an outside presence against a weak point, a visceral reaction borne of the need to survive.   
  
           Sansa held her thumb there until she felt him relax, grinning a little at the power and meaning the touch held. Like men who stuck their arms in a lion’s maw for show. It was an action only she was allowed to do; touching his soft spots, near his eyes, along his neck, his pulse points. His lips twitched when she went to pinch his earlobe as he had done, which she used to pull him down so that her lips could reach his. His thick fingers had moved to her thighs, massaging the muscles underneath.   
  
           Sandor drew her in tighter so that her stiff nipples dragged against his chest and her mons pressed against the base of his manhood. Her legs tightened against him, and he opened his mouth against hers to bite gently at her lower lip, tugging at the soft flesh with a throaty growl.  
  
           The hot flesh jutting from between Sandor’s legs pressed a hot line along Sansa’s tummy, making her pulse quicken. She rocked her hips forward, and he used the motion to grab at her bottom. The two of them went slowly. They took their time. It was a luxury, a special occasion which was not often afforded to them, and so they would not pass it up by rushing.  
  
           When he slid her up to ease himself inside, he was met with soft moans and a gratifying wetness that was not from the water in the tub. Her heat spread around him as she sank down and he planted her firmly against him, holding her there fully hilted until she began to squirm with an impatient desire.   
  
           Each motion was deliberate, every thrust had intention. While one hand wrapped around her back to help guide her, the other went to the crease of her thigh, sliding between them to rub against her most sensitive point. His head dipped down to kiss and nibble at her neck and ear.   
  
           Her chin tilted back, and he kept up his tactile assault of her senses until she clawed at the back of his neck with slippery fingers and shuddered against him, her sweet noises breathed into his ear. A song she sang only for him. At this point carnal need was allowed to win out over their controlled pacing, and both breathing and thrusting became more erratic until his shoulders bent forward and he grunted out his completion.  
  
           When they finished, both were flushed shades pinker than their normal complexion, and their breath rose in faint clouds with the steam of the bath. He tightened his grip around her, squeezing their bodies together in an effort to eliminate any amount of space between the two of them, as close as they could possibly be in separate bodies. She lay her head against the dip between his  neck and shoulder, and they remained in the warm water until their breathing slowed, her arms draped over him, fingers lazily raking through the hair at the base of his skull.  
  
            He slowly lifted her and pulled out with a satisfied groan, giving himself a few quick strokes under the water to wash himself. He went to do the same with Sansa, washing between her legs and causing her to shiver when his hand brushed against her sensitive nethers. Sansa leaned back and raised her hand to stroke along his cheek, but her eyes went wide at the sight of her wrinkled fingertips, causing her to let out a small noise of dismay which Sandor rolled his eyes to.   
  
           When she hid her fingers in closed fists he knew their time was done, so he heaved himself up with a sigh as the water rushed down his body in an attempt to return to its home below. His muscles instantly seized against the cool air. Stepping carefully over the edge, he signaled for Sansa to wait while he went to grab her towel.   
  
            “Come on then, little bird,” he said, when he returned to the side of the bath. He held his hand out to her.  
  
           She took it, blushing like it was the first time he’d ever offered his hand to her. He pulled her up and quickly wrapped her in a towel before she had a chance to squeal at the cold, hugging his arms around her and pulling her up and over, lowering her until her feet made contact with the floor.  
  
            Luckily, the stone beneath their feet was warm, which meant the cold of the room must have been due to a crack in the walls or some other such fault letting outside air in. He would have to mention it to someone, or tell Sansa to. Had the floors not been warm, he probably would have gone so far as to carry her the distance to her discarded clothes. As it was, only when she was wrapped in towels did he go to get some of his own.   
  
           When dressed, Sansa almost immediately felt bad for having splashed his clothes earlier. They were still damp, making him wince when he put them on. He looked a sorry sight. “Gods damn you, girl,” he swore, though not in earnest. “Come here.”  
  
           She tentatively obliged, but he picked her up over his shoulder just the same despite her timid protest. He carried her out of the bathhouse towards their apartments, and this time she did not struggle and squirm quite so much. Not until he stepped out in the grounds did he let Sansa down at her own insistence, for her fear that anyone might witness her being any less than the perfect example of a lady…and perfect ladies did not allow themselves to be slung over a man’s shoulder in public like a sack of flour. She linked arms with him the rest of the way, walking a bit faster so that Sandor did not have to suffer the wet clothes for long, apologizing the whole way back.


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Of knights and men_

          Sandor glared down at the wooden knight in his hand, the line cut in its mouth flat and unsmiling. It mimicked Sandor’s own expression. The dull thudding of wood on stone _tap, tap, tapped_ in his ear as little Cat made the knights walk on the floor in front of her, grinning like a fool. Her army was as organized as a toddler’s could be, horses strewn about, knights both upright and toppled in no particular order, a doll in a dress that was entirely too big to have any logical place in the formation lay atop one of the fallen horses. When she made them walk, it was often on their sides, rather than upright.  
  
          “Bran’s old toys,” Sansa said to Maggie and Septa Mariyah, as the three of them stitched side by side on a long cushioned bench. The doll had been one of Arya’s, long forgotten.  
  
          “Masterfully made, truly. Such detail. It’s fortunate you thought to keep them,” said the septa. Maggie nodded in agreement.  
  
          Sandor’s thoughts were elsewhere as he moved the soldier’s sword arm with his finger. It was the only joint that moved, the right shoulder, permanently bent at the elbow, grasping a little sword, swinging up and down. It was nothing compared to the wooden knight with moving joints that he’d once played with.   
  
          Gregor’s toy knight was even more detailed than this one, its craftsmanship unmatched. How he had envied his brother for that stupid toy, longing to play with it so bad that he stupidly took it. He _borrowed_ it, just to play with, just once. But playing with that knight had not been worth the price he’d had to pay.  
  
          Catelyn was mumbling to herself in her limited vocabulary, noises and gibberish sprinkled with real words here and there. She knew to make the doll say, “Oh no!” when the dragon swooped down at her, and she knew to have the knights all say “Uh oh!” as they watched her get stolen away. She hit the doll with the dragon, and knew to make the knight who had come to rescue her say, “No!” and “Bad!” Other times, she made spluttering and _gwoosh_ ing noises to signal the soldiers’ fighting and the dragon flying. When she needed a break from the dramatic storyline she was creating, she chose to stick one of the wooden horses in her mouth until Sansa inevitably made a noise of warning and Sandor tugged her hand and the soggy horse down.  
  
          He was not unfamiliar with the games of pretend that children played. He had played them himself, as a young boy. He’d eagerly listened to stories of knights and fair maidens, and thought one day he would be _Ser Sandor,_ and would be part of the stories. He’d had dreams and fantasies, all the same things he mocked Sansa for. All of which had melted away with the side of his face, as his brother pressed him into the flames with a terrifying certainty and determination that would not have broken had the men not heard Sandor’s screams and come to pull Gregor away. After that, the playmates and friends he had shared those silly fantasies with seemed to disappear, too. It was not a feeling easily overcome by a young boy, when the young girls he knew screamed and ran weeping at the sight of him. Because monsters were meant to be ugly, if Sandor was so ugly, then he _must_ be a horrible, evil monster, unlike gallant Gregor, as his features were all intact. It was a hard, bitter lesson on life.   
  
          Gregor became Ser Gregor, and as a teenager it became ever more apparent that girls would flock to brutish, violent Gregor over him, all because of his title. Gregor didn’t even _want_ them, not in any romantic way. The empty holes of self-pity were replaced with frustration and rage— it was what pushed him to survive rather than allow himself to fall from the highest point in Clegane’s Keep in the hopes of cracking his own skull open. He found new friends in the hounds in the kennels. Companions that greeted him happily despite his appearance, loyal friends through and through, while the humans they replaced left him on his own.  
  
          _Stupid cunts. Stupid fucking cunts_. The soldier’s wooden arm came dislodged from Sandor’s idle repositioning up and down, bringing him back to reality. He pressed the arm back into its socket, and set it down with the other toy knights.  
  
          “Play, play, play!” chanted little Catelyn, fumbling with the knight on the ground and holding it back up to her father. He sighed, and allowed her to clumsily place the knight in his open hand, _how long before she starts to see my scars?_ It wasn’t the first time the thought crossed his mind. His thumb brushed over the knight’s carved face, his grey-painted helm which had faded. He clenched his fingers around the knight, wanting to toss it in the fire.  
  
           “Papa, _play,_ ” she insisted, in her clumsy tongue, awkwardly knocking one of her toys against his hand.  
  
          He released his grip on the toy knight, letting it fall on the floor, “Not now, girl,” he grumbled, and stood even as she reached for him, leaving her looking up at her mother for explanations, confused and defeated. He left, and she went to the baby, showering her with affections in an attempt to wipe away the hurt look on her face.  
  
          It wasn’t the first time he had randomly walked out on her, and Sansa had tried time and time again to talk to him about it. Every time, he avoided, and though Sansa was sure she knew the nature of his discomfort, she did not understand it well enough to know how to fix things. Instead, she had to guess.

  
          Two nights later, Sansa climbed into bed with him and placed a wrapped object in his hand, a sly smile on her face. “I had this made, a few weeks ago,” she said softly, giving him a nudge to open it.  
  
          He propped himself up a bit more, reluctantly unwrapping the object, a toy for Catelyn. He sighed, “Sansa…” Wrapped in the sheet of parchment was a wooden soldier, bigger than the others, with dark painted armor. There was no expression carved into the face- instead, the wood on half the face had been stained and carefully textured. He knew she meant well, but he felt mocked, “This isn’t funny.” His mouth twisted as he turned the toy version of himself in his hands.   
  
          “It…it’s not meant to be _funny_. You…it’s just, you always look so angry- when she’s playing with the toys, and I thought, well, if she had a toy knight that-“  
  
          “-I’m no _knight_ , Sansa. Fuck’s sake.”  
  
          “No, that’s not what I meant- but, just, it’s like you. And it’s the biggest, and the strongest, and that way- I mean, she _adores_ you, Sandor. Truly. You get to be the hero-“  
  
          “It’s not _like_ that, Sansa. She’s a baby. It’s all bloody fun now, but how long will that be? When she learns better, when she understands?”  
  
          “Understands…?”  
  
          “Stop it. Don’t play games, Sansa, you know damn well. There’ll be a day when I’m not the… She’ll get bigger and she’ll realize you’re the pretty one, and I’m not, and what then? No buggering toy’s going to change that.”  
  
          Sansa’s hands were folded across her chest, and she was looking at him with a painfully disapproving look. “I came to love you. It was not _easy_ , you did not make it easy, but I did. You are her _father_ , she came into this world loving you and her love won’t change. She will not suddenly open her eyes and see you as anything else. It doesn’t matter what you think of others, but don’t condemn our daughter the same way you condemn everyone else, the way you condemned me in King’s Landing.”   
  
          She did not know where this sudden outburst of hers had come from, but for some reason the felt the need to make herself absolutely clear to him on this matter. It wasn’t for _her_ sake, it wasn’t about courtesies or foolish gifts, it was about Catelyn. Her baby. And she didn’t think she could stand to see that awful, innocent look of hurt confusion that had come to conclude every time he was with her.  
  
          He scoffed. “I didn’t—“  
  
          “—yes, you _did._ You assume everyone sees the worst in you, and so you act cruel, and horrible, and mean, but you’re just...you’re condemning yourself and gods be good, I don’t know how many times I must repeat myself to you before you know it as the truth! There isn’t anyone in the castle who truly dislikes you. You are not your brother. They _chose_ you to rule, not out of fear. And you get upset with me for being childish… you...”Sansa had run out of words, and so she just threw up her arms in frustration. She thought of Arya. Childish, stubborn, harsh Arya, and wondered if things had worked out differently, if Arya and the Hound wouldn’t make good friends. Or perhaps perfect enemies, they were both so unbearably set in their ways.  
  
          She was facing him with her head tilted to the side, trying to pull his eyes up to hers with only the will of her mind. He would not look up from the wooden toy in his hands, his mouth pressed into a grumpy line. One of the pieces of wood in the fire began to crackle and pop as the flames consumed it, unconcerned with preserving the silence of the moment.  
  
            Sandor finally set his miniature down, “It’s a fine toy,” he grumbled, handing Sansa the victory.  
  
           He didn’t think his feelings would ever really change, no matter how many times his little bird would argue with him. His view of the world was sculpted from years of treatment he had received, and Sansa’s influence made up only a small portion of that time.  
  
           _She makes a better mother than you do father_ , he thought. He didn’t want to think how he might react if something befell Catelyn like what he had experienced as a boy. Sansa had the right of it…He was driven by anger. He had not been as kind as he could have been, perhaps _should_ have been, when they met. _And you won’t likely be with little Cat, either._  
  
           He was distracted from his brooding silence by his lady wife’s hand on his arm. “You can’t be so harsh with her…not like you were with me. She’s a baby.”  
  
           “You took it well enough.”  
  
           She sighed at his jape, and continued. “One day, I will give you sons, and…and you can treat them how you like and they will be stronger for it. I do not pretend to know the ways of boys. But she’s our little _girl_ , and, and she’ll need someone _strong_ to run to when she’s hurt. And when she does, she shouldn’t have to worry that her father will mock her or scold her for it, she shouldn’t have to worry that you might turn away from her.”  
  
           Sandor didn’t know if that was truly what Sansa believed he might be like with their daughter, or if she thought it because she felt he acted that way towards Sansa herself. He didn’t know if there was any truth in her predictions, but it hurt nonetheless to be faced with the accusations. “Fine,” he said distractedly, mind already moving on to think of sons. _Sons._ He looked at her, then, weighing her with his eyes.   
  
          It was with a late realization he understood how carefully she had chosen her words- his little bird knew what songs to sing to him. How had he not realized it until now? _Manipulative she-wolf_ , he cursed to himself, laughing harshly aloud. It was her stupid, innocent face, the way she stammered and blushed, but surely she spoke with careful calculation. _Sons._  
  
           Sansa blinked, offering up a tentative laugh at the joke which she was not privy to. “All right?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.  
  
           “Aye. All right, little bird.” He grinned, pulling her in and giving her a kiss. The surprise with which his kiss was met dissipated into softness, and she ran a tender hand along the side of his face. He pulled her in, then, giving her another kiss against her jaw, and slumping to rest his chin upon her shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing has slowed a bit due to some real-life distractions, however this story is not over!  
> Like I keep saying over and over, thank you so much for your supportive comments and feedback, and to those of you who have shared this story with others, you are all so amazing.
> 
> I'll try to keep posting new chapters as soon as possible, but it may be a little while before the next chapter comes along. <3


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Business as usual_

          As it turned out, Sansa’s predictions of sons may not have been so far off, as within a fortnight she informed Sandor that she had missed her moon’s blood. This time she told him first, _then_ went to the maester to confirm, which he did happily. When Sandor was told, he nodded, but there was a smile behind his angry eyes that was for Sansa alone, and Sansa was happy for that moment, free of conflict. When they were left alone, he pulled her in tight, allowing himself the emotional freedom of a reserved celebration.  
  
          With a second child on the way, arrangements had to be made, and unfortunately the couple’s first child was causing them more of a distraction than they had wanted. Catelyn, now that she could get around quite well on her own, had taken to sneaking off even in a room full of people, as though she could turn invisible. Inevitably, she would be found hiding under a bed or some other small space, or turn up climbing around where she wasn’t supposed to be, much to Maggie and Sansa’s dismay.  
  
          Sandor, on the other hand, was quite amused with her. Even when he and Sansa had managed to lose her in their own bedroom, Sansa was near frantic, while Sandor stood shaking his head as he surveyed the room. Sansa searched the furs, under the bed and table, even in the closets to no avail. On a whim, Sandor went to the breastplate which he rarely used, squatting down and tilting it up off the ground. Underneath, he found Catelyn, staring up at him with big eyes and a crooked little smile.   
  
          “Found her,” he said, and Sansa breathed an exasperated sigh of relief.  
  
          “Papa!”  
  
          “Aye. Come here now, shadowcat,” he rasped, taking hold of her arm and pulling her up with him, “Back to bed.”  
  
          She giggled, and allowed herself to be handed off to her mother, who looked both glad and annoyed with her. “Do _not_ run off like that, sweetling,” she scolded, for the hundredth time that month.   
  
          “Yes, Mama,” her little voice clumsily promised, also for the hundredth time, before she squirmed her way under the blankets and furs, a little lump moving around the mattress.  
  
          Sandor was grinning crookedly, but Sansa shook her head, “It’s not _funny!_ She could have been hurt…She must get this from you! How am I to handle two disappearing children?”  
  
          Her husband leaned back against the pillows and pulled his strong arm around her shoulder, “Might be the next one isn’t such a bloody sneak” he shrugged, “Or might be we’ll have to put bells on them,” he japed, and Sansa swatted at him.   
  
          She swatted at him, an action that was not uncommon from her and one that they both recognized as an act of play, and a reminder. It was not something she would consider _ladylike_ , but she did it just the same, when no one else was around. He would have let her do it in public, too, probably- it was her own reservations that prevented such actions in public. Only one woman could get away with hitting the Hound, whether serious or not, and it was a woman who had at one time never been afforded to display such acts to _anyone_ without facing certain death. At least, that’s how Sandor saw it.   
  
          Young Catelyn was now grunting and grumbling, attempting to burrow herself between the pillows her father was leaning back on, an act which his weight would not allow. He took gentle hold of her soft foot, dragging her back across the mattress. Despite her obvious capture, she still clawed at the sheets in an attempt to pull herself back…perhaps if she did not acknowledge their presence or her capture, they would forget she was there.  
  
          No such luck. Try as she might, the hold remained on her foot, and her parents remained staring down at her.  
  
          Sansa took hold of Cat’s hands, prompting Sandor to release her foot, and helped her stand on the mattress to face her. “Catelyn?”  
  
          Her daughter’s blue eyes found her mother’s. Her eyes. The same eyes mirroring each other, different only in their view of the world. It was almost bittersweet for Sansa, knowing that once her eyes had once held that same brilliant innocence.   
  
          “Calin!” she repeated clumsily.  
  
          “Will you sit still for Mama, please?”  
  
          Without pause, Catelyn shook her head vigorously, and Sansa tried to hide her smile at the infuriating truth of her- she would not say what she was _supposed_ to say, she knew only to speak the truth at this age. She understood how her mother must have felt with Bran, and Arya. If her daughter was destined to take after one of them, Sansa hoped for Bran.  
  
          “Well, _please_ sit,” she said, changing it to more of a command than a question. It worked, and Catelyn plopped down and let her mother pull her into her lap. Sandor’s eyes smiled down at her, and he squeezed her shoulder as if to say _See? Two will be nothing.  
  
_           He could swear she never looked more stunning than when she was with child. It wasn’t because of the swell of her teats, either. She just seemed to _glow_. There were parts of Sansa had certainly been extinguished in all she had endured over the years, but it was as if carrying life within her gave _her_ life. It seemed to fill in the empty bits of her.  
  
           Sansa was strong, and though she didn’t always show her loneliness, it was there, he knew. Sandor had only noticed it once it had gone away with her first pregnancy, its absence making its presence all the more known when it returned. Yet now, once more, it was gone, and she seemed to walk a bit taller for it despite the added weight.

          That night, the Great Hall was full of talk, a hundred voices churning together into an indiscernible jumble from which only bits and pieces could be heard by the outside listener. Maggie and the baby were not present at the dinner, mostly because both she and Sansa did not trust Catelyn in such a large and crowded hall, even if she was strapped down.  
  
          It was all for the best, though, as supper gave Sansa the time she needed to discuss matters of the castle, tend to outside business, and so on. It wasn’t exactly _private_ , but it would not be possible to hear anything over the din any farther than four feet. Of course, more sensitive topics were saved for later. Sandor was supplied with the distraction of food, occasionally offering a grunt or harrumph to indicate he was listening. Tonight, Sandor was fighting to concentrate on his meal over the conversation, which he wanted no part in. A letter had arrived by raven from The Vale, and aside from having no interest, he did not desire to hear news which would only serve to raise his ire.  
  
          “Have you read it, maester?” Sansa asked, setting down her spoon. He nodded, and began to pull the rolled parchment from his robes when Sansa stopped him, “I would prefer not to. What is the nature of the letter? Is it a personal matter?” She did not want to read anything from Littlefinger. She didn’t want to touch it. She hardly even wanted to hear the contents, and if she wasn’t concerned about the information it might hold, she would just as soon have the letter burned. Like Petyr Baelish had done on his visit, she worried anything sent from him would serve only to poison the air in Winterfell with conflict.   
  
          The maester looked a bit unsure, “He mentions Lady Arya, among other things, my lady.”  
  
          Sansa shook her head, “Then I would prefer not to read it. If…if it contains concrete information, I trust you to act upon it, but otherwise…if you think it wise, I would rather leave it be.”  
  
          The maester nodded, “Of course, my lady.”   
  
          Sandor noted Sansa’s pause before she spoke again, much lower, “…is…is there _any_ possibility…is there any _truth_ in what he…claims?”  
  
          He sighed, “My lady…your sister has not been seen since her disappearance, dead or alive. If you ask if it is _possible_ , I should have to say yes, without having witness to the contrary. It is not _probable_ , and I do not think it wise to trust the word of Lord Baelish.”  
  
           Sansa nodded in resigned agreement, “Yes. I suppose you’re right,” she said, suddenly very interested in the leftover peas on her plate.  
  
          Although his wife looked no different on the outside, Sandor felt the urge to take her hand or pull her into a hug. It was an urge which he resisted, instead taking a long drink of wine before wiping the back of his forearm across his mouth. He did not understand her attachment to her family- she never seemed to care a thing for her sister at King’s Landing, from what he remembered, but he disliked her being upset.   
  
          Plates clattered as the servants cleared away plates and brought out after-dinner bites, and conversation moved forward to rations and trade. With Winter upon them, great care would have to be taken to ensure they had the means to provide proper food and shelter for the castle’s inhabitants, and those in Winter Town. Farmers who could no longer keep crops began to migrate in, creating both cost and potential gains.  
  
          While Septa Mariyah was offering her wisdom, Sandor felt Sansa’s hand slip into his, her thumb rubbing along the soft skin between his thumb and forefinger. Instinctively, he mirrored the action, absently tracing soft circles on the back of her hand. She was tired. When he felt the weight of her eyes on him he gave a slight nod, after which Sansa excused the both of them.  
  
          They spoke a silent language, the two of them, when words would not suffice or prove appropriate. It was a special language learned with time, a secret language that could only be spoken between people who knew each other so intimately that words were no longer necessary. When they stood, everyone at their table momentarily did the same, as was protocol, before once more resuming conversation.

          She was quiet on the walk back to their quarters, and as the silence grew longer, Sandor’s worries grew, too. It was he who finally broke the silence, halting mid-step.   
  
          “You going to look for her?”  
  
          Sansa blinked back into the present, “Sorry?”   
  
          “Your sister.” _Of course_. She had forgotten he’d been there too, no doubt listening despite how uninterested he appeared. His forced grunts of response did not fool Sansa into believing he was actively participating, though she should have known he would want to hear anything that had to do with Baelish. She did not want to discuss it, dinner had not agreed with her and she was just looking forward to lying down on her soft pillows.   
  
          “Oh. I…” she looked down, “I don’t know, Sandor. If…if there’s even a _chance_ that-“  
  
          “Don’t. Don’t go to him.”  
  
          “Sandor!” she looked hurt. His mouth twitched. She shouldn’t have been, it was not so far-fetched of him to think she would run after Petyr, running after some falsehood. “If…even if I _were_ to go to him, I swear to you I would not go myself. As it is I…I would much rather find, if she _is_ still…I would rather find her before he does.”  
  
          “If your sister is still alive she’d have said so. You really think the Lannisters haven’t been looking for her, too? That a child could make it alone?” She had to understand. She had to _see_.   
  
          “You don’t know Arya she’s…I don’t know, she’s not like-“  
  
          “You go chasing after this fantasy, you’ll only find pain.”  
  
          “I am not chasing anything. Please. I do not need to be told once more how dreams are for fools.”  
  
          “I know you’re no fool.”  
  
          “Do you?” she said, unconvinced. She was tired and nauseated, and found it somewhat hard to believe this would not turn into something more.  
  
          “Aye. I do.”  
  
          “I…Well. Good, then.” Sandor snorted and resumed walking, which Sansa took as a resolution. _Thank the gods._ Her hand found his. He gave it a squeeze, but instead of keeping hold, guided her hand to his back and pulled his arm around her shoulder. “Shall we get Catelyn for tonight?”  
  
          “Aye.”  
  
          As it was, minutes later Sansa tugged Sandor to a stop, swaying a little. Before he had a chance to ask what was wrong, she pulled away, lurching forward and leaning one hand on one of the cold stone columns. She doubled over, heaving up her dinner while simultaneously waving Sandor away. Sandor rushed to her side despite it- he didn’t care. He’d seen his share of unseemly things, and vomit didn’t even begin to cover the extent of it. He curled his fingers around her silky hair and pulled it back, watching tears leak from her watery eyes, an uncontrollable result of the bodily stress. She sank down, and he knelt beside her in the snow.  
  
          “You need the maester?” He didn’t know if he should be concerned. She’d handled the first child stunningly well, he had imagined this one would be the same.  
  
          Sansa shook her head quickly, closing her eyes. The sickness was over as quickly as it had come, but that did not change how mortified she was. She could not have been more infinitely grateful of Sandor when he let her hair down and pulled her into a gentle hug with one arm, while handing her a handkerchief with the other.   
  
          She cleared her stinging throat, “I’m sorry. I don’t- I think it’s just the baby.”  
  
          “Don’t apologize. The babe ought to be the one bloody apologizing,” he rasped, a joke.  
  
          Sansa turned her head into him, “Already this one is trying to torture me,” she whined, though with a smile. When she started to rise, he stood and pulled her up into his arms, carrying her the rest of the way back and taking care not to sway her too much.  
  
          Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck, giddy heart aflutter even though she felt absolutely disgusting herself. She couldn’t imagine ever tiring of him carrying her- it _was_ romantic, like a fairy tale or a song. _My giant…my hero, carrying me off_ , she thought, smiling to herself as he pushed open their door and set her back on the bed. She would never venture to tell him, of course.  
  
          “You all right, little bird?”  
  
          She nodded and kissed his neck, his cheek, avoiding his lips on purpose- her mouth tasted sour, and she knew she must be repulsive. His index finger tilted her chin up, and he kissed her there just the same, making Sansa both blush and cringe. He poured her water for her to rinse her mouth, and even went so far as to set her nightclothes beside her on the bed.  
  
          “You still want little Cat?”  
  
          “Yes- if you still do?” Sandor nodded, and left to fetch her.

          Maggie came to the door at the knock. First, she looked startled, a common initial reaction to seeing a huge, scarred man with a glare like he could tear down a wall at any moment. Sandor was used to it. Once her senses caught up, though, her face softened and eyes brightened, “Oh! My lord! You’ve come for the little lady, I expect? Hoping your supper was to-“  
  
          “—Spare me,” said Sandor, raising his hand and stepping around the wetnurse, into the room.  
  
          “Papa!” Catelyn was dressed for the night, a soft woolen nightdress with rolled sleeves, as they had been made just a bit long. She reached for him.  
  
          “Aye, shadowcat. Up you go.” When he pulled her up to his shoulder, she grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled it to her face like one would a blanket. He gave the wetnurse a nod as he left.  
  
          “I will see you in the morning, young lady! My lord, send my blessings to your lady wife!” she called after him, until he was out of sight down the hall.   
  
          “Mama?”  
  
          “Aye. We’re going to your mother.”  
  
          “No!” she said, matter-of-factly. It wasn’t a refusal or disagreement.  
  
          “Yes, little one.”  
  
          “No!”  
  
          “…Aye.”  
  
          “No!”  
  
          “All right,” he rasped.  
  
          “No!”  
  
          He began to realize the game, and did not continue it, rolling his eyes with a sigh. When they got to the bedroom, Sansa was already dressed, hair brushed shiny copper-red. Sandor could swear he saw a bump in her tummy, but logic would say it was probably the tummy which had not quite gone away from the first child…it had only been a month, now, that she was with child, so she wouldn’t be showing yet. _Sons._  
  
          “Down you go, little one,” Sandor muttered, and Sansa smiled up at him, and she looked beautiful. Stupidly, foolishly, ridiculously beautiful. She had business being pretty like that, not when she’d been heaving in the snow minutes before. _Stupid little bird._ He untangled Cat’s fingers from his hair and gave her to Sansa before going to get dressed for bed himself.   
  
          “You all right?” he asked.  
  
          “I feel fine, thank you,” she replied softly, holding her daughter’s head against her breast and smoothing her soft black curls. “Just the baby being difficult, I expect.”  
  
          “Hm.” He pulled his tunic over his head and lay his swordbelt on the table. “Must take after me, eh?” He joined her on the bed, and leaned in as she kissed his cheek with a smile.  
  
          “Yes. I imagine in the end he won’t be so disagreeable,” she retorted, raising a brow. He offered up his crooked grin, pulling his arm around her.  
  
           “Hmph. She went fast,” he rasped, thumbing the edge of Cat’s nightdress. She had fallen asleep against her mother, fingers clenched around a lock of her mother’s hair, mouth hanging slightly open.   
  
          Sansa nodded. “I’m afraid to move.”  
  
          “So stay.” When Sansa gave him a look, he realized he had missed something- she was being _sentimental_. “Oh.” Perhaps he was supposed to agree with her, or pull her in tighter, or coo lovingly _yes, she is absolutely_ darling. He would do none of those things.   
  
          “I think I will,” she replied shrewdly. He always seemed to know what to say- it was never what she _expected_ , nor always what she _wanted_ , but somehow it was always _right_. At least when it involved her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As _always_ thank you so much for dropping in to read, comment, etc. Thank you so much to everyone who has thought to share this story around, too. It means a ton. I get just a little giddy seeing the 'views' counter slowly increase- haha!  
>  Apologies for the gap between posting this chapter and the last one. Shocked as I am that I've made it this far, this story is not over yet! The chapters should start to roll in a bit faster now, no more week-long gaps.


	51. Chapter 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Raiders in Winter Town_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perspective does jump around a bit in this chapter, and might be a little confusing. I'm still working out some kinks, and I'm not quite fully satisfied with it yet.

          A horn blast and bells signaled trouble outside the walls of Winterfell. Young Catelyn woke whimpering, Sansa and Sandor both woke quickly. Blankets were tossed aside and swordbelt grabbed, while Sansa tried to comfort their daughter.  
  
          “What is it?” She asked, realizing what a silly question it was as soon as she’d spoken.  
  
          “You know well as I do,” he grunted, agitated, though more at being woken than at her.  
  
          “Stay here?”  
  
          Sounds from outside were reaching the closed windows, the silence of the night growing increasingly disturbed. There were a few shouts, nothing audible. Sansa was not _worried_ , at least not for herself. She was _home_. Home was safe. Sandor, however…wherever he intended to go would be to whatever had caused the warning to be sounded.  
  
          “That’s for you to do.” She should have known better than to even ask. How could he refuse the opportunity for a fight?  
  
          “Fine…go have your fun,” she sighed. “Be safe.”  
  
          He was out the door, a clatter and “Damn!” signaling his accidental stumble into the table in the hallway. Evidently, he’d caught the vase it held before it fell to the floor. Sansa sighed, rubbing circles and patting gently Catelyn’s back while she squirmed and fussed. After what seemed like hours, she stood, walking to the window and opening it to peer out. She could see the torches that burned on top of the walls glowing through the dark, but nothing else. The silhouettes of walls and rooftops were barely discernible.  
  
          Sandor was met by squires who dressed him in armor, while Maester Redwin protested.  
  
          “My lord, it is only a group of raiders. No doubt Ser Martyn and his men are well equipped to handle such things.”  
  
          “Bugger off, old man.”  
  
          “My lord.”  
  
          He shrugged deeply into his armor, having it settle properly on his shoulders. “Where?”  
  
          “Winter Town, my lord. From the east.”  
  
          Sansa jumped at the knock on her door, but when she turned it was only the septa with Maggie in tow.  
  
          “Lady Stark,” both said softly, considering the child in her arms.  
  
          “I hope you will forgive the intrusion, my lady. Your lord husband…?”  
  
          “He left- What is going on?”  
  
          “Raiders, my lady. It seems a small thing, gods be good.”  
  
          “Would you like me to take the little lady off your hands, Lady Sansa?”  
  
          “That’s all right, Maggie, thank you. She’s fine, the noise upset her.”  
  
          “Would you have us leave you to rest, my lady?” asked Septa Mariyah.  
  
          “No. I…if you would be so kind…I would appreciate the company.”  
  
          “Of course, my lady.”  
  
          Maggie went to arrange the chairs and set a fire, while Sansa pulled on a robe. “It…it did not sound like such a small thing,” she ventured, fighting the urge to bite at her lower lip anxiously.

          The air outside was so cold that each breath made Sandor’s throat and nostrils rawer. Fighting in the cold was a different experience than the warm southron battles. The cold seeped through armor and seemed to freeze joints, making movement slow, like trying to battle underwater. Luckily, no one was immune to the frost so it still made for an even match, though he did regret not wearing thicker wools underneath. No matter, a bit of fight would warm the blood.  
  
          Raids were not common here, not so far north. Still, it seemed these raiders had come from even _farther_ north, and in the winter, their best hopes for food and goods were at Winterfell. _Foolish shits_ , he thought, with a grin, as he stepped through the rising portcullis. The raiders were loud, shouting and whooping.  
  
          Sandor walked to the edge of town, groups of soldiers breaking off in different directions, the group of raiders doing the same. He watched the rats scatter, taking mental note of each he could see, he counted fifteen… twenty… thirty. _Thirty_. At least thirty. A large number for one group, but not organized. He flexed his swordhand around his hilt to keep his fingers moving, watching as one of the men was run through with a spear by a guard. They seemed to be a mixed bunch, but most seemed to actually be trained in fight. _Even better._  
  
          The darkness made for another obstacle, each shadow tricking the brain into seeing imaginary threats. Guards of Winterfell wore their stark expressions, following the din of the raiders with their jaws set. All around Sandor, shutters were closed and doors were slammed and barred like an unpracticed drumline of civilians eager remove themselves from the action.  
  
          _Be safe_ , she had told him. Much as he wanted to be at the heart of the fight, he could still find action without putting himself in what Sansa would call _unnecessary danger_. As if there was any real danger. He slipped through alleyways and emerged near a group of four, all hurriedly stuffing food from storage in sacks. The first to notice him stared, stunned. Sandor’s face twisted in a nasty grin, and he nodded slowly. _That’s right. Go tell your friends, you fucking rat._  
  
          The man fled. Sandor let him go. When the next man emerged from the storage shed and saw his mate missing, he spun around, noticing Sandor as his two friends stepped out behind him. They stared like prey backed into a corner. Each in boiled leather with swords, one with a spear. But that look in their eyes, that was a sweet picture.  
  
          The only thing Sandor loved more than seeing the fear in the eyes of someone he meant to kill, was seeing a man too stupid to be fearful. An arrogant man, unwittingly walking to his death. It made killing him all the more sweeter- to see the realization fall upon them: _I am going to die._  
  
          The man with a sword came at him. Rather than help, his friends pulled the door to the shed closed, locking themselves inside. Steel met with iron, and not ten seconds later Sandor felt the man’s warm blood speckle his cheek. Hardly a fight, and he was just getting warmed up.  
  
          He kicked down the door to the storage- fuck whomever it belonged to. He could allow himself the enjoyment of a little drama. A broken door was preferable compared to months’ worth of provisions being looted.  
  
          The man with the spear lunged forward, swiped once, twice. Each time, Sandor side-stepped. On the third swipe, Sandor’s sword met with the spear, breaking off the end. On the fourth swipe, it was evident the man did not realize his tip had been lost, so Sandor grabbed the spear, while turning to block a strike from the third man.  
  
          They danced for a precious minute before Sandor was thoroughly bored, ending the monotony with a couple swift cuts. The second man had released his useless spear and pulled a dagger. He looked from Sandor to the door and made his choice, breaking into a run. His stride was stopped by his own spearhandle pinning him to the ground through his stomach, while his arms still reached for the open doorway. His dying fingers curled, clawing into the ground. These men were untrained, no doubt that was why they had parted far from the main fight.  
  
          _Be safe,_ she had said, but this was getting ridiculous. He imagined being out of practice would make for a more even battle, but it proved to be child’s play. _Fuck it_. He stepped over the fallen door, no longer bothering with stealth. If this was going to be interesting, he’d have to go right to the thick of it. He’d deal with Sansa’s berating when the time came. He was a man of the front lines, hanging back and playing things safe did not suit his purpose.  
  
          Sansa was singing a soft prayer along with her two companions, both for their own comfort, and Catelyn’s. Cat seemed to be enjoying herself. _I am a foolish little bird. While he fights, I am singing songs,_ she thought, imagining what he might say if he saw this. _‘songs won’t save you, little bird’._ She touched a hand to her aching head.  
  
          “Are you all right, my lady?” asked the septa.  
  
          Sansa nodded. “Just a small headache. It’s nothing.”  
  
          “You ought to lie down- it’s the stress, no doubt.  And you need none of that in your condition. You ought to rest.”  
  
          “Truly, it’s nothing. Thank you, septa.”

 

  
           
          When Sansa woke, there was no fire burning, no women, and there were no songs being sung. There was only a large gentle hand cupped against her aching head. The world came into focus with her blinks, and so did the fiery grey eyes in front of her.  
  
          She smiled sleepily, “Hello.” Someone had left a blanket on her lap, but still she shivered from the cool air with no child on her lap or fire in the hearth to further ease the chill of winter.  
  
          “You’re shaking. I frighten you so much?” He spoke softly, a low rumble, a small joke.  
  
          “No.” Her hand moved to her head, resting over his. “Were you hurt?”  
  
          “Scratched a bit. It was child’s play. Ground’s too cold to dig graves so I left before your fucking northerners burned the bodies.”  
  
          “They are your northerners, too. Have you washed?”  
  
          “Aye. Washed and patched up. You’ll not have to worry about getting your pretty dress soiled.” _Not unless I tear it off you with my teeth, pretty bird,_ he thought, eyes darting to the swell of her breasts. His blood was still hot from the fight despite his injuries.  
  
          “Did Maggie take Catelyn?”  
  
          “Must have. Weren’t here when I came.”  
  
          Sansa sat up straighter, his hand dropping to rest on the chair’s arm. She shrugged off her robe and held her arms out, “Take me to bed?”  
  
          Her eyes glinted with a childlike playfulness- she had spoken innocently, it was not meant to be suggestive. Sandor knew this, but still his cock stirred in his trousers.  
  
          “The bed’s not ten paces from here- I’m no horse-drawn carriage.”  
  
          “But it’s even fewer paces for you, _my lord_. I should not exert myself in my condition…if not for me, then for your _son’s_ sake.” She grinned coyly, and he rolled his eyes.  
  
          “You’ll be the death of me, little bird. You’ve been spoiled rotten,” he said gruffly. He lifted her up just the same, her blanket falling to the floor where it was left. It was neither for her sake or the babe’s, as she had joked, but for his own selfish gain. That priceless look she got in her eyes each time he scooped her up was not lost on him, though he would not point it out…awareness has a funny way of provoking conscious efforts to hide expressions.  
  
          With one arm holding her up, he bent to pull the covers back, bringing her down to the bed with him and positioning himself behind her with a small wince. From under the blankets, calloused hands slid up her nightshift to rest over her tummy, spreading his fingers out so that his thumb met with her ribcage. He felt slight pressure as she lay her hand on his, over the shift. His face went to the crook of her neck, nuzzling, gently dragging his teeth in a biting motion along the space between her neck and shoulder, pressing his lips to the place where his teeth came together with an inhale.  
  
          He’d gladly have her right now, if he didn’t think the sheets would be bloodied and the maester would need to be called after. Not from their bedding, but because “scratched a bit” was somewhat of an understatement. He hadn’t even felt the cuts, nor hardly the stitches, a benefit of the cold, but they’d surely add to the collection of scars his body housed. Sansa would fuss when she saw, but she would fuss a great deal more if his rutting ripped open his stitches.


	52. Chapter 52

           The winter month had been particularly warm. At least, warm enough that the snow had melted, leaving behind only dead grass and mud, which froze during the night. Sansa’s pregnancy was beginning to show more, and so the blessings began to pour in. Though Sandor was eager for the babe’s arrival, part of him wished the days would slow, as soon he would be left to run Winterfell on his own once more.  Ruling was about as enjoyable to him as the prospect of skipping through a field of flowers. The child was not due for at least a few moons yet, which remained a small comfort.

          He led Sansa uncomplaining, allowing her to lean her weight surreptitiously against him when she was feeling particularly tired and inelegant. However Sansa felt, she never seemed to look it. She had her morning routine, splashing her face with cold water, running a brush through her hair even before the handmaidens came to brush it for her, so that they wouldn’t have to work through tangles.  
  
          He met her outside their chambers, staying to the left side of the hallway, as both had narrowly avoided toppling over pine accent table that had been placed on the opposite side of their door and furnished with a pretty porcelain vase. The vase had been a gift, though Sandor couldn’t for the life of him remember where it had come from. It was a shit gift, and a shit place to keep it. Both of them constantly forgot to ask someone to move it.  
  
          As they walked downstairs, Sansa kept one hand holding her skirts in anticipation of stepping out into the mud. Try as she might, Sandor noticed the small twitches of disapproving disgust on her face which would appear involuntarily every time the mud squelched under her boots. Still, she would not let mud stop her from walking freely. _Nothing_ would stop that anymore, for she was no longer in a cage.  
  
          “Did you speak with Ser Martyn this morning?”   
  
          “I did.”  
  
          “Can he spare more guards for Winter Town?”   
  
          “Aye, but it will take work. He’ll have to train the men and arm them properly, get a feel for the town. Got to set posts, too. And more barrels for hot coals, keep ‘em warm.”  
  
          “Must it be such a project? Most raids are not so large, are they?”  
  
          “No, you’ve the right of it. They figure it’s better to have too many than not enough, I’ve no say in it, so let him bloody do as he likes. So long as the guards are going to be there, might as well set ‘em up right.” They walked through one of the courtyards, heading down a narrow flight of stairs between two buildings, passing a few bundled up groundskeepers scraping away ice.  
  
          “Of course you have a _say_ in it.”  
  
          She was right, of course. He said it more of habit than anything, and he felt mildly foolish for it now. Whatever. “Well, makes no difference to me how many men he puts, if we’ve the men to spare.”  
  
          At the bottom of the stairs, Sansa’s foot slipped from underneath her as she stepped. She rolled into him with a small noise, and he gripped her arm tighter and grabbed her other arm, tightening his grip to keep her from hitting the stone.  
  
          “You all right?”  
  
          She nodded with an embarrassed smile, “I’m sorry. I should have been more careful.”  
  
          “Aye, you should.” Then he laughed gruffly, “Better you slip than I- lest you be flattened into the ground.”  
  
          Sansa laughed in return, then, realizing she was still clinging to him, released her grip a bit. “That is true. I’m afraid there would be no hope for either of us if you slipped.”  
  
          “I’ll tell someone to sand the steps.”  
  
          Two young boys were clumsily fighting each other with wooden swords in one of the courtyards, dancing around one of the steaming hot springs. Sansa couldn’t help but feel a little pang of worry- both boys were dressed heavily in wools, and should one of them fall in… She tugged Sandor to a stop, sitting back on one of the low stone walls after checking to make sure it was clean. Her feet were hurting a bit anyway. He obliged.  
  
          One of the boys stopped to wave as he saw them, promptly getting whacked in the behind by his opponent. Sansa waved delicately back, politely hiding her smile, though the boy had already turned away. Sandor took a seat beside her, not caring the slightest if his place was clean or not.  
  
          “How old do you think they are?” Sansa whispered, leaning over to him.  
  
          He shrugged, “Five. Six, maybe.” _Bran’s age._  
  
          “They’re darling.”  
  
          He grunted. Sandor didn’t care for them. It wasn’t that he disagreed, but he felt nothing towards them. They were just boys, nothing more or less. The sentimentalities were lost on him.  
  
          “Can you imagine when Cat gets to be that big?”  
  
          At that, he softened. “Hells. No,” he rasped, with a half-chuckle. Catelyn _was_ actually darling, though he would never use that word to describe her. She mattered. She mattered, and she was precious to him, and that’s about as close to _darling_ as anyone could ever hope to get in his eyes.  
  
          After that, they sat in silence for a bit, the sound of wood knocking against wood echoing in the yard until the boys’ mock fight took them elsewhere. Sansa leaned her head against Sandor’s bicep, staring at the rising mist from the spring. She was glad to be in Winterfell, she was thankful, but her ghosts followed her everywhere. It was both comfort and curse.  
  
          King’s Landing felt like a lifetime ago, but she may just have easily remained there. A soft smile came to her, and her throat tightened a little from the memories that accompanied the nostalgia. She looked up at Sandor, “Why did you take me?”  
  
          “What?” Just once she wished he could read her thoughts.  
  
          “From…from King’s Landing. I just…I never asked you why you did it, before.”  
  
          “Course you have.”  
  
          “When?”  
  
          “Don’t know. Plenty.”  
  
          “I don’t think I have.”  
  
          “Fine.” He shrugged, “You cold?”  
  
          She shook her head, “No. Are you?” She asked only to be polite. She knew he was trying to change the subject, whether consciously or not, but she had never let him get away with that.  _He ought to know better,_ she thought, amused.  
  
          “No.”  
  
          “All right, so…why?”  
  
          He shifted uncomfortably, “Does it matter?”  
  
          “I don’t know. I…I was just thinking about it. I was curious.”  
  
          Sandor sighed, “You bloody well think too much.” He didn’t enjoy her prying. She was happy to wrap herself in courtesies, in sweet words and sentimentalities, but for him emotions were _weaknesses_. Sure, he could no longer _deny_ how he felt about Sansa, how he felt about his life now, with her, but he didn’t have any desire to _discuss_ it. He was here. He cared for her, he did right by her, that should be enough. The past wasn’t important, it changed nothing, that’s why it was the _past._  
  
          “Sandor,” she urged.  
  
          “I don’t know. I didn’t think about it.” He _had_ thought about it, in a way. Each time Ser Meryn’s metal met her flesh, each time he saw her cringe from the bruises she hid under her dress, each scream, each false word she spoke for fear of saying the wrong thing. It was never something that kept him awake at night, though. He was no dreamer, and so he did not imagine stealing her away on horseback, nor plan escapes. He only knew part of him _wanted_ to.  
  
          “You _must_ have thought about it… you were risking your life. And you offered to save me before. Surely it was on your mind.”  
  
          “It was a long time ago, Sansa.”  
  
          “I’m…I’m not asking for compliments, you know. I don’t…expect a romantic answer, or anything. Truly. I’m only curious. And why _me_? You _hated_ me.” Sandor winced, but she continued quickly, “I mean, I know in the end…we were friendly, I suppose, but…”  
  
          He looked down at her angrily, “I never _hated_ you, Sansa. Don’t be a bloody fool.” He said it with such vehemence that Sansa was taken aback.  
  
          “You don’t have to _lie_ , Sandor-“ as soon as she spoke, she realized the error she’d made. He tensed against her and turned away, but to her surprise he didn’t leave her.  
  
          “Don’t test me, girl.”  
  
          “I’m sorry- I didn’t, I didn’t mean _lie._ I just meant, if you were trying to spare my feelings-“  
  
          “I wasn’t.”  
  
          “Then why were you so…so mean to me?” The words felt childish on her lips. But she had been a child back then, and he had not exactly been the example of a gentleman.  
  
          “You were an annoying little pain in the arse. Still are, sometimes,” he grumbled. Then, grudgingly added, “You grew, though.”  
  
          “But you did not like me. You did not _love_ me. So why would you…why would you put yourself through all of it?”  
  
          “Joffrey never treated me well. It was no great loss to go. And you needed someone to take you from that cage of yours, little bird.”  
  
          Her fingers were starting to get cold, but she wasn’t finished. She stood and extended her arm out. He stood and pulled his arm around her shoulder, so Sansa adjusted, letting her hand rest on his back. “Did you…when you took me, what was your plan?”  
  
          “I had no plan.”  
  
          “But…how?”  
  
          He scratched the back of his head in uncomfortable frustration, “I don’t know, I was acting a fool. You were…ah, fuck.” he sighed angrily, struggling to find the words. He was never good with words. “You didn’t belong there. I tried to take you once, you wouldn’t go. I’d’ve left it at that, but when your precious shit of a king collapsed, you’d’ve gone down with your imp husband. Figured I’d not give you the choice. Didn’t think about it. It was stupid.”  
  
          “You think it was stupid to save my life?” she asked curiously.  
  
          He laughed, giving her shoulder a squeeze, “Aye. Stupidest bloody thing I ever did.” He paused, and his mouth twitched, “Best thing I ever did. But fucking stupid.”  
  
          Sansa would have stopped to look at him, but he kept walking, steering her along. He felt her slight resistance, but he would have none of it. It was no lie, what he said, but it made him feel uncomfortable like one. It was new to the tongue. He didn’t need her swooning over it.  
  
          But Sansa didn’t swoon. She just leaned a bit heavier against him. “Did you…did you mean to sell me?”  
  
          “What?” He heard her, but the question surprised him. She’d never accused him of having those motives, not that he could remember, so he didn’t anticipate it coming up now. He wondered if this was Littlefinger speaking, through Sansa.  
  
          “I mean…you could have. Surely…you knew, you could ransom me, or, I don’t know. Was that your intention?”  
  
          “…Aye. I considered it. Thought your aunt might pay a nice price if I brought you to her. I’d not have held you, though. But she died, so that put an end to it.”  
  
          They walked up the stairway to their chambers, once again sticking to one side of the wall, Sandor taking particular care to watch the steps for ice. “And why didn’t you…well, there was Riverrun, still, I think. And…other places, surely. You didn’t even consider them?”  
  
          “Might have. I don’t remember. I said I’d keep you safe, that’s what I intended. Didn’t go further than that. I wasn’t trying to keep you, wasn’t trying to get rid of you in a hurry, neither.”  
  
          Sansa nodded, “I see.” He pushed the door to their chamber open and she turned to face him, smiling, “So you were being _honorable_.”  
  
          He rolled his eyes, placing his hand at the small of her back and grabbing at her waist, giving her a firm tug in, “Don’t push me, girl,” he rasped, with a crooked grin, other arm reaching behind to close the door.  
  
          Her hands went to lay flat on his chest, sliding down to his swordbelt where her fingers tucked underneath snugly. She rose up onto her toes to give him a kiss. His lips met hers hungrily. A hand went to her neck to tilt her chin up more with his thumb, palm pressed gently to her throat. Her body’s natural reaction was to send her pulse quickening, though she never once worried he might tighten his grip.  
  
            _My giant._ Without a doubt one of the most fearsome men in Westeros, and it would be a lie to say there were not times when she feared him, but she was not _afraid of_ him. To some, a small distinction. To her, the distinction marked the difference between her husband and Joffrey, or the Mountain, or Meryn Trant. 


	53. Chapter 53

          “There a baby in there, Mama!” giggled Catelyn, pointing to her mother’s tummy. Sansa laughed aloud and raised her eyebrows, looking at Sandor.

          He shrugged, “Wasn’t me who told her.”  
  
          Sansa smoothed her daughter’s hair, “Yes there is, my sweet girl. Who told you that?”  
  
          “Magga!”  
  
          “Is that so?”  
  
          “Uh-huh.”  
  
          “Did she tell you that you would have a brother soon?”  
  
          Catelyn shook her head vigorously, “No,” she said, the force with which she shook her head sending her reeling to one side. She grinned.  
  
          Sansa took hold of her daughter’s feet, pressing her thumbs gently to the soles, “Do you know what his name will be?”  
  
          Catelyn giggled, “No!”  
  
          “ _Sandor_.”  
  
          “ _Sannoh,_ ” she repeated clumsily, eyes focusing on her mother’s mouth in an attempt to replicate the sound.  
  
          “Do you know who else is named Sandor?”  
  
          “The baby!”  
  
          “Yes, but who else?”  
  
          Catelyn twisted sideways, stretching her arms above her head, “I dunno!”  
  
          Sansa pointed over at Sandor, “Your papa is named Sandor, too.”  
  
          Thinking her mother was clearly joking, she laughed, “No-oo!”  
  
          “Yes. Papa’s name is Sandor, too.”  
  
          She stared blankly for a moment, then, true to form of a toddler, said “I’m sleepy.”  
  
          “You want to go back to Maggie, child?” Sandor asked, easing himself down on the bed beside his daughter and wife, a bear beside a pair of butterflies.  
  
          She rolled over and grabbed hold of her father’s forearm, wrapping both arms around it, apparently ignoring the inquiry. He lifted his arm up with no resistance- she weighed all of nothing to him- and she managed to cling on for a few moments before losing her grip, sliding down, and plopping onto the bed. Reaping intense joy from the experience, she groped at the air, bouncing where she sat to get him to lower his arm again. He couldn’t refuse.  
  
          Sansa watched with a mother’s intent, all the things that _could_ go wrong rolling through her brain. Each little _plop_ on the bed made her blink, but she made herself smile through it and wondered if her own mother once felt the same way. Young Catelyn would need to be sent back to Maggie soon, to be changed, fed, and rested, but she could have her fun for now.  
  
          By the fifth lift-and-plop, she was _truly_ sleepy, and beginning to get fussy. When Sansa next mentioned Maggie, Catelyn made her limbs go stiff and rigid, scrunching her face up and kicking her legs in a (thankfully) silent tantrum. Sansa looked pleadingly to Sandor, and so he curled his hand around her middle and went to take her to the wetnurse.  
  
          On his way there, he found himself incredibly annoyed at the fact that her whimpering seemed to be physically painful to him. “All right, shadowcat. You’re all right.”  
  
          “No!”  
  
          She continued her sniffling and squirming until he slipped into one of the empty rooms. “What is it you want from me, girl? Or do you mean to torture me forever?” he rasped, sitting back in one of the chairs and turning her to face him on his knee.  
  
          Young Catelyn seemed unconcerned with his plea, although he didn’t doubt she understood the words. She had stopped squirming, at least, and took one big sniff, grabbing a fistful of his tunic and burying her face in it. He rolled his eyes and put a hand on her back, nearly covering her entirely. _You’re a bloody fool_ , he thought to himself. _Your wife has pulled some mummer’s trick, no doubt._  
  
          After a short time her sniffles began to subside, and her breathing deepened. She had fallen asleep, a warm ball against his stomach, and though he knew he could now easily complete his mission he found his limbs had ceased working properly. Rather than getting up to bring her to Maggie, he stayed in the chair, in the empty room, weighed down by an invisible force. The Hound had been halted by a toddler. _Anyway, you don’t want to wake her,_ he thought to himself, grumbling as his eyelids grew heavy.  
  
          Sansa and Maggie found the two of them eventually. Sandor was sitting crookedly in the chair, slumping a bit to one side, chest heaving with slow, deep breaths as he slept. Catelyn was draped over his thigh, her mouth lazily hanging open, drool staining a little dark spot on his trousers. She was still clutching her father’s tunic while his hand remained over her to keep her in place.  
  
          “Would that I had some way to capture this moment,” she sighed, clutching Maggie’s hand. Maggie nodded empathetically.  
  
          After both taking a few moments to appreciate the precious scene in front of them, Maggie went to Catelyn, and Sansa went to Sandor. Both gently woke their respective responsibilities, Maggie taking hers to be changed and fed, Sansa leading hers disoriented back to their bedchamber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd be remiss if I didn't thank Christine and Helen for letting me spend to much time with their children, otherwise I'm sure the dialogue here would be impossible. They can't speak well, but they speak a LOT.


End file.
